Even Mr. Wicks is my enemy.
He watches and guards. Who knows what he might say to the eldest Sister? He has nothing to do all day but watch and guard.
In the bunk at tea I sit among thoughts of my own. The Sisters are my enemies....
I am alive, delirious, but not happy.
I am at any one's mercy; I have lost thirty friends in a day. The thirty-first is in bed No. 11.
This is bad: hospital cannot shelter this life we lead, No. 11 and I. He is a prisoner, and I have my honour, my responsibility towards him; he has come into this room to be cured, not tormented.
Even my hand must not meet his—no, not even in a careless touch, not even in its "duty"; or, if it does, what risk!
I am conspired against: it is not I who make his bed, hand him what he wishes; some accident defeats me every time.
Now that I come to think of it, it seems strange that the Sisters should be my enemies. Don't we deserve sympathy and pity, No. 11 and I? From women, too....
Isn't there a charm hanging about us? Aren't we leading magic days? Do they feel it and dislike it? Why?