When she reached home she passed quickly through the dimly lit hallway and so up the long stairs, escaping notice.
The hinges creaked as she opened the door of her dark room. She went in quickly and closed it and rested against the lintel, panting, her head thrown back.
Her mind was fire and ice. She must kill this agony.
A little light floated in from the street through the open window. She could see her bureau with its white cover and the sparkle of toilet instruments on it. She went there and picked up a pair of scissors, plunging the points twice into her flesh with quick stabs.
Feeling numbness and relief, she stood stupidly watching the blood, dark and colorless, gather on her forearm.
Mary had a little lamb. I'm mad. Washed in the blood of the lamb.
She sank to her knees, then relaxed on the floor in a half sitting posture, her head thrown back against the bed, her hat awry, one hand holding the ache of her bleeding wrist, the glow from the street lamp bewildering her eyes.
Mr. Price, gruff and solemn, tried to hasten the departure. "Well, Winifred, you're ready?" His smoky eyes were everywhere and on no one. He waved the hand that held his hat.
Winnie had on a new cloak and a pretty little blue straw turban.... Laurie will be angry when he sees Mother has been buying me clothes.