to see that the light of dawn was
not falling through a tall barred aperture at the head of her bed, but
was coming across a wide carpeted room from two chintz-curtained
windows. Then she remembered she was at home; the roaring was the
habitual sound of a great city; the room was the room she had had since
she was a child. It seemed less familiar to her, less homelike, than her
cell. She put out her hand to the satin coverlet and the sheets, softer
than satin. The physical sensation of the contact was delicious, and yet
there was something sad about it too. It was the thought of her late
companions that made her sad, as if she had deserted them in trouble.

It would be two hours or more before Eleanor and Benny would be awake.
She flung her arms above her head and lay back, thinking. She mustn't
let them cherish her as if she were a wounded, stricken creature. She
was more to be envied now than in the old fighting days, when all her
inner life had been a sort of poisoned turmoil. No one had pitied her
then.

Her plan had been not to be too hasty in arranging her new life, which
she knew must include work--work in connection with prisoners. But now
she saw she mustn't waste a minute. She must have work at once to take
her away from herself. She could hardly face the coming day--everyone
considering her and that detestable ego of hers, asking her what she
wanted to do. She must have a routine immediately. She was not strong
enough yet to live without one. Only one thing must take precedence of
everything else--a pardon for Evans. She could not bear to remain at
liberty with Evans still serving a sentence. With that accomplished, she
could go forward in peace. In peace? As she thought of it she knew that
there was one corner of her mind where there was not and never would be
peace. Only last evening, in the first happiness of being at home, the
mention of O'Bannon's name had threatened to destroy it.

And now he was in her mind, holding it without rivals. The moment had
come when her hatred of him could find expression. It needn't be a
secret dream, like a child's fairy story. She needn't suppress it--she
could act. If she had not been such a coward last evening she would have
named him and gone boldly on and found out from Eleanor where he was,
what he was doing, what was his heart's desire. Perhaps if she had put
her questions frankly Eleanor would not have told her; but it would not
be difficult to deceive so doting