midnight
Her heart refused to make surrender of its hope . Though it could be held only by an encouragement of recognised illusion , she preferred to dream yet a little longer . Above all , she must taste the luxury of forgiving her lover , of making sure that her image would not dwell in his mind as that of a self-righteous woman who had turned coldly from his error , perhaps from his repentance . A little after midnight , she rose from bed , slipped on her dressing-gown , and sat down by the still burning lamp to write what her passion dictated : ` Why should you distrust my ability , or my willingness to understand you ? It would have been so much better if you had sent what you first wrote . These few lines do not even let me know whether you think yourself to blame . Why do you leave me to form a judgment of things as they appear on the surface ?