"Nor is that the only occasion on which imagination has played me a trick. One night, when I came home late from market, I walked into the cottage parlour thinking to find Hortense; but instead of her I thought I found you. There was no candle in the room; my sister had taken the light upstairs with her. The window-blind was not drawn, and broad moonbeams poured through the panes. There you were, Lina, at the casement, shrinking a little to one side in an attitude not unusual with you. You were dressed in white, as I have seen you dressed at an evening party. For half a second your fresh, living face seemed turned towards me, looking at me; for half a second my idea was to go and take your hand, to chide you for your long absence, and welcome your present visit. Two steps forward broke the spell. The drapery of the dress changed outline; the tints of the complexion dissolved, and were formless. Positively, as I reached the spot, there was nothing left but the sweep of a white muslin curtain, and a balsam plant in a flower-pot, covered with a flush of bloom. 
"Nor is that the only time on which imagination has played me a trick. One night, when I came home late from market, I walked into the cottage parlour and thought I saw you. There was no candle; moonbeams poured through the panes. There you were, Lina, at the window, dressed in white. For half a second your face seemed turned towards me; for half a second my idea was to go and take your hand, to welcome you. Two steps forward broke the spell. The drapery of the dress changed; the face dissolved. When I reached the spot, there was nothing but the sweep of a white muslin curtain, and a plant in a flower-pot. 