Next morning I am sitting before my looking-glass--never to me a pleasant article of furniture--having my hair dressed.

I am hardly awake yet, and have not quite finished disentangling the real live disagreeables which I have to face, from the imaginary ones from which my waking has freed me.

At least, in real life, I am not perpetually pursued, through dull abysses, by a man in a crape mask, from whom I am madly struggling to escape, and who is perpetually on the point of overtaking and seizing me.
It was a mistake going to sleep at all last night.

It would have been far wiser and better to have kept awake.

The _real_ evils are bad enough, but the dream ones in their vivid life make me shiver even now, though the morning sun is lying in companionable patches on the floor, and the birds are loudly talking all together.