She re-opened the suitcase and took from a pocket in the top the same volume of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “Sonnets from the Portuguese” she had been reading at luncheon.
She put her purse in the bedside table, closed the suitcase, dropped her black satin bedroom slippers from her feet, slipped off her black rayon kimona and got into bed.
She wore her only silk nightgown and it felt soothing upon her small round breasts. It caressed her thighs. She opened her book, pulled back the curtains and began to read.
A student nurse came on the floor and took the suitcase and brought the bed-pan for a specimen. Then she asked if there was anything else, and went away.
Mrs. Witherspoon, who had completed her operations for the moment, emerged from her curtains.
“Good evin’, dearie. Hope you feelin’ fair?”
“Yes, thank you. How are you feeling?”
“Better, dearie. You don’t remember me, do you?” Her small murky eyes fastened themselves upon Rose’s near cheek.
Rose laid down her book and smiled at her kindly.
“No, I’m sorry, but I am afraid I do not remember. I’ve been sick and tired and my memory isn’t very good, Mrs....”