I've got to heat the oven.

Might as well go to bed, an' lay there forever, anyway.

If I stayed up till doomsday nobody'd come." Sylvia set the shovel back with a vicious clatter; then she struck out--like a wilful child who hurts itself because of its rage and impotent helplessness to hurt aught else--her thin, red hand against the bricks of the chimney.

She looked at the bruises on it with bitter exultation, as if she saw in them some evidence of her own freedom and power, even to her own hurt.
When she went to bed she stowed away her money under the feather-bed.
She could not go to sleep.

Some time in the night a shutter in another room up-stairs banged.