She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. Nasty, damp passages. “Wonderful!” “I have always longed for prison service,” said a voice, “always. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. “It really is not necessary.
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