“It's time to get up. The whistle has sounded.”
Lise heavily opened her eyes. They were bloodshot.
“I don't want to get up. I won't get up.”
“But you must,” insisted Janet, tightening her hold. “You've got to—you've got to eat breakfast and go to work.”
“I don't want any breakfast, I ain't going to work any more.”
A gust of wind blew inward the cheap lace curtains, and the physical effect of it emphasized the chill that struck Janet's heart. She got up and closed the window, lit the gas, and returning to the bed, shook Lise again.
“Listen,” she said, “if you don't get up I'll tell mother what happened last night.”
“Say, you wouldn't—!” exclaimed Lise, angrily.
“Get up!” Janet commanded, and watched her rather anxiously, uncertain as to the after effects of drunkenness. But Lise got up. She sat on the edge of the bed and yawned, putting her hand to her forehead.
“I've sure got a head on me,” she remarked.