Aratov opened his eyes, raised himself, leaned on his elbow.... The voice
grew fainter, but kept up its plaintive, hurried talk, indistinct as
before....

It was unmistakably Clara's voice.

Unseen fingers ran light arpeggios up and down the keys of the piano ...
then the voice began again. More prolonged sounds were audible ... as it
were moans ... always the same over and over again. Then apart from the
rest the words began to stand out ... 'Roses ... roses ... roses....'

'Roses,' repeated Aratov in a whisper. 'Ah, yes! it's the roses I saw on
that woman's head in the dream.'... 'Roses,' he heard again.

'Is that you?' Aratov asked in the same whisper. The voice suddenly ceased.

Aratov waited ... and waited, and dropped his head on the pillow.
'Hallucinations of hearing,' he thought. 'But if ... if she really were
here, close at hand?... If I were to see her, should I be frightened? or
glad? But what should I be frightened of? or glad of? Why, of this, to be
sure; it would be a proof that there is another world, that the soul is
immortal. Though, indeed, even if I did see something, it too might be a
hallucination of the sight....'

He lighted the candle, however, and in a rapid glance, not without a
certain dread, scanned the whole room ... and saw nothing in it unusual. He
got up, went to the stereoscope ... again the same grey doll, with its eyes
averted. The feeling of dread gave way to one of annoyance. He was, as it
were, cheated in his expectations ... the very expectation indeed struck