She was in a bed, sleeping heavily, a little before dawn.

The day that followed was her day of misery. The blow that had stunned
her had become as a loud intrusive pulse in her head. By this new
daylight she fathomed the depth, and reckoned the value, of her loss.
And her senses had no pleasure in the light, though there was sunshine.
The woman who was her hostess was kind, but full of her first surprise at
the strange visit, and too openly ready for any information the young
lady might be willing to give with regard to her condition, prospects,
and wishes. Emilia gave none. She took the woman's hand, asking
permission to remain under her protection. The woman by-and-by named a
sum of money as a sum for weekly payment, and Emilia transferred all to
her that she had. The policeman and his wife thought her, though
reasonable, a trifle insane. She sat at a window for hours watching a
'last man' of the fly species walking up and plunging down a pane of
glass. On this transparent solitary field for the most objectless
enterprise ever undertaken, he buzzed angrily at times, as if he had
another meaning in him, which was being wilfully misinterpreted. Then he
mounted again at his leisure, to pitch backward as before. Emilia found
herself thinking with great seriousness that it was not wonderful for
boys to be always teasing and killing flies, whose thin necks and bobbing
heads themselves suggested the idea of decapitation. She said to her
hostess: "I don't like flies. They seem never to sing but when they are
bothered." The woman replied: "Ah, indeed?" very smoothly, and thought:
"If you was to bust out now, which of us two would be strongest?" Emilia
grew distantly aware that the policeman and his wife talked of her and
watched her with combined observation.

When it was night she went to keep her appointment. The girl was there,