It is no good waiving the thing; it is true. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. He had been quite right to sit down. They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in. There was a fourth story; but he never told either Ruth or McClintock about this. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture.
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