ty had made all the surrounding<br>objects stand still, had set me down under my bedclothes, in my bedroom,<br>and had fixed, approximately in their right places in the uncertain<br>light, my chest of drawers, my writing-table, my fireplace, the window<br>overlooking the street, and both the doors. But it was no good my<br>knowing that I was not in any of those houses of which, in the stupid<br>moment of waking, if I had not caught sight exactly, I could still<br>believe in their possible presence; for memory was now set in motion; as<br>a rule I did not attempt to go to sleep again at once, but used to spend<br>the greater part of the night recalling our life in the old days at<br>Combray with my great-aunt, at Balbec, Paris, Doncières, Venice, and the<br>rest; remembering again all the places and people that I had known
