I am back in No. 4, in one of the thirteen beds. My body goes on doing
the same things. Gets up at five o'clock. Dresses, cleans, prays, eats,
goes to school, eats, sews, plays, eats, studies, goes to bed. And
that's got to be done every day in the same way it was done the day
before.

But it's just my body that does them. Outside I am a little machine
wound up; inside I am a thousand miles away, and doing a thousand other
things. Some day I am going to blow up and break my inside workings, for
I wasn't meant to run regular and on time. I wasn't.

What was I meant for? I don't know. But not to be tied to a rope. And
that's what I am. Tied to a rope. If I were a boy I'd cut it.

* * * * *

I am almost crazy! A wonderful thing has happened. I am so excited my
breathing is as bad as old Miss Betsy Hays's. I believe I know who I am.

My heart is jumping and thumping and carrying on so that it makes my
teeth chatter; and as I can't tell anybody what I've heard, I am likely
to die from keeping it to myself.

I am _not_ going to die until I find out. If I did I would be as bad off
in heaven as on earth. Even an angel would prefer to know something
about itself.

I'm like Miss Bray now. I'm counting on going to heaven. Otherwise it
wouldn't make any difference who I was, as one more misery don't matter
when you're swamped in miserableness. I suppose that's what hell is: