Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. Here and there, a rectangular patch, darker than the rest, showed that some had been removed. She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip. “What the devil are you doing star-gazing here?” Ennison looked at him in surprise. She watched as his headlights flooded the driveway and many minutes after his car was gone.
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