She lay down, took a novel out of her pocket, and tried to read.

Her heart was beating hard, and that burning fever of unrest and longing which was consuming her very life, kept coursing madly through her veins.
"The fever is my wine," she muttered.

"At first it supplies false strength, false cheer, false hope.

Afterwards--afterwards--" a queer look came into her strange face--"I too, shall rest and sleep." Profound stillness reigned in the next room.

Nina softly rose, and going to the sideboard took out the decanter of wine, opened a window, and emptied it into the area below.