Explore "Olive" by Dinah Mulock on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
When Olive returned to consciousness she was lying on her own bed, the same whereon her mother had died. Olive almost thought that she herself had died too, so still lay the shadows of the white curtains, cast by the one faint night-lamp that was hidden on the floor. She breathed heavily in a kind of sigh, and then she was aware of some watcher close beside, who said, softly, "Are you sleeping, my dear Olive?"
In her confused fancy, the voice seemed to her like Harold's. She imagined that she was dead, and that he was sitting beside her bier -- sorrowfully -- perhaps even in tenderness, as he might look on her _then_. So strong was the delusion, that she feebly uttered his name.