The world had grown dark and wide, and she was very small. At Morningside Park I feel as though all my growing up was presently to stop, as though I was being shut in from the light of life, and, as they say in botany, etiolated. There is a musical programme, and we have the windows open and blinds up, and a pink lamp shade over the piano lamp—a sort of advertisement of the place, you know. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. “A little touchy this evening, aren’t we, Missy?” Michelle chided her friend. It would surely be only common politeness to drop her a hint—a fellow countrywoman too. At the same time, I must say that I am most anxious to improve my acquaintance with her. Besides—there is Sir John.
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