She walked heavily to the closed bedroom door and knocked authoritatively.
No answer. Not a sound.
“Helen, are you in there?”
“Yes, mother,” came the faint reply.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” in a wailing, muffled voice, as if this person who was doing “nothing” was being smothered.
Mrs. Cutter thrust the door open and went in. She was astounded. Her daughter lay face downward across the bed, with her arms wound above her head in two beautifully curved lines of mute despair. Two pretty legs extended stiffly beyond the uttermost that skirts could do to cover them. One slippered foot worked slowly as you move a foot in pain, and at quick intervals the slender form rose and fell convulsively to the passionate rhythm of sobs.
“What on earth is the matter?” the mother exclaimed.
“Nothing.”