Sally had not moved out of her room.
The possibility of a letter from Traill might have drawn her forth;
but she knew that such a possibility did not exist. The woman who
attended to their rooms she had sent away.
"I shall be able to look after these two rooms myself," she had
thought vaguely. Then she had locked herself into her bedroom, taken
up a duster to begin the morning's work and, after five minutes, idly
lifting each thing in her hand, she had seated herself by the side
of the bed, allowing the duster to fall limply from her fingers. Then,
throwing herself on to the pillows, had given way with tearless eye
to her despair.
When Janet's knock fell, she was lying in bed, eyes gaping at the
ceiling above her in a gaze that scarcely wandered or moved from the
spot upon which they were fixed. At the unexpected sound, she sat
up. Intelligence struggled for the mastery in her mind. There, in
her eyes, you could see it fight for victory.
"Who's that?" she called out querulously in a thin voice.
"Janet! Do you mean to say you're not up yet?"
"No."
"Well, come and unlock the door. I can't get in."
Sally drove the energy into her limbs with an effort and tumbled from
the bed.
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