In the deserted palace he recognised a sinister adaptation by his brain of the long corridors with many doors, in the great building in which his friend's newspaper was lodged on the first floor.

The marble head with Miss Moorsom's face! Well! What other face could he have dreamed of?
And her complexion was fairer than Parian marble, than the heads of angels.

The wind at the end was the morning breeze entering through the open porthole and touching his face before the schooner could swing to the chilly gust.
Yes! And all this rational explanation of the fantastic made it only more mysterious and weird.

There was something daemonic in that dream.
It was one of those experiences which throw a man out of conformity with the established order of his kind and make him a creature of obscure suggestions.
Henceforth, without ever trying to resist, he went every afternoon to the house where she lived.

He went there as passively as if in a dream.