Her brain was now abnormally clear, supernaturally active. It worked
with an eager deference, as if striving to atone for the periods when
it failed her. The little clock struck ten. It was early--she had a
long day before her, a beautiful spring day; for she noticed now the
tender green of the leaves and the youth of the grass. How interesting
it would be, she reflected, idly, to go out into the free, busy world
and mingle with human beings, and walk the city streets and come into
touch with life and the living. She would go, she would spend the day
that way; but, alas! the nurse would go, too--cool, kind,
professional, alert, quietly watchful. If she could in any way elude
her and go alone. ...

Her eyes narrowed and took on a look of cunning as she turned them
sidewise toward the open door. As stealthily as a cat she crept to it
and looked in. On a divan in the farthest corner the nurse lay
stretched in a deep sleep, whose unpremeditatedness was shown by the
book which lay on the floor, dropped, evidently, from her suddenly
relaxed fingers. The patient retreated as noiselessly as she had
advanced, and, going to a mantel-mirror in her sitting-room, turned on
her reflection there a long and frightened look. She saw a woman of
thirty-five, thin, pale, haggard, high-bred. Her hair had been
arranged in accordance with the nurse's conception of comfort and
economy of time, and though her gown was perfect in its fit and
tailor-made severity, the lace at her neck and in the sleeves of her
silk waist was not wholly fresh. Her lips curled as she looked. This
was she, Alice Stansbury, the wreck of a woman who had once had health
and beauty and wealth and position. The last two were in a degree left
to her, but what difference did it make how she looked, she asked
herself, harshly. Even as the thought came, however, she took off her
waist and sewed clean lace cuffs on the sleeves, replacing the collar