go to a room upstairs."

And go we did, in spite of all I could plead about feeling well
enough now to go alone and all the rest of it. How was I to get
out of a second or third-story window?

I began to think about the Correction again as I followed her
upstairs, and after she'd left me I just sat waiting for the
doctor to come and send me there. I didn't much care, till I
remembered the Bishop. I could almost see his face as it would
look when he'd be called to testify against me, and I'd be
standing in that railed-in prisoner's pen, in the middle of the
court-room, where Dan Christensen stood when they tried him.

No, I couldn't bear that; not without a fight, anyway. It was
for the Bishop I'd got into this part of the scrape. I'd get out
of it so's he shouldn't know how bad a thing a girl can be.

While I lay thinking it over, the same maid that had brought me
the tea came in. She was an ugly, thin little thing. If she's a
sample of the maids in that house, the lot of them would take the
kink out of your pretty hair, Thomas J. Dorgan, Esquire, late of
the House of Refuge and soon of Moyamensing. Don't throw things.
People in my set, mine and the Dowager's, don't.

She had been sent to help me undress, she said, and make me
comfortable. The doctor lived just around the corner and would be
in in a minute.

Phew! She wasn't very promising, but she was my only chance.