She got up, lighted the candle, and trod over the icy floors to the room relentlessly with her bare feet.
There was a pane of glass broken behind the shutter, and the wind had loosened the fastening.

Sylvia forced the shutter back; in a strange rage she heard another pane of glass crack.

"I don't care if every pane of glass in the window is broken," she muttered, as she hooked the fastening with angry, trembling fingers.
Her thin body in its cotton night-gown, cramped with long rigors of cold, her delicate face reddened as if before a fire, her jaws felt almost locked as she went through the deadly cold of the lonely house back to bed; but that strange rage in her heart enabled her to defy it, and awakened within her something like blasphemy against life and all the conditions thereof, but never against Richard Alger.

She never felt one throb of resentment against him.

She even wondered, when she was back in bed, if he had bedclothing enough, if the quilts and bed-puffs that his mother had left were not worn out; her own were very thin.
The next day Sylvia heated her brick oven; she went to the store and bought materials, and made pound-cake and pies.