John Saltram was sitting up in bed, propped by the pillows on which his two elbows were planted, looking about him with a fierce haggard face, and calling for "Marian." The nurse had fallen asleep in her arm-chair by the fire, and was slumbering placidly.
"Marian," he cried, "Marian, why have you left me?
God knows I loved you; yes, even when I seemed cold and neglectful.

Everything was against me; but I loved you, my dear, I loved you! Did I ever say that you came between me and fortune--was I mean enough, base enough, ever to say that?
It was a lie, my love; you were my fortune.

Were poverty and obscurity hard things to bear for you?
No, my darling, no; I will face them to-morrow, if you will come back to me.

O no, no, she is gone; my life has gone: I broke her heart with my hard bitter words; I drove my angel away from me." He had not spoken so coherently since Gilbert had been with him that day.

Surely this must be an interval of consciousness, or semi-consciousness.