turned one's head, lifted one's hand, asked for water, that the piercing realities shoved themselves in. She didn't move as much as her little finger.
There were green-stained rafters overhead, splotchy flowered cretonne at the windows. There was a cane-backed rocking chair beside her, with black and pink and gray ribbons hung over it. Edna gazed at the ribbons a long while, fascinated. There was something familiar about them. She groped for an instant, fumbling. They were not ribbons! She remembered now. She was on a snow-shoeing trip, of course. They were stockings! Hers! She had put on as many pairs as she could crowd inside her high tan boots that morning. She had overheard the women mention the number of stockings they wore, and she had followed suit as well as she could. Hers were not lumbermen's socks. Where did one buy such things? They were pink and gray silk, and black lisle—all her trunk produced. But if they were there on the chair, what had she on now? She moved a toe. With electric response a sudden sharp twinge of pain made everything clear.
Edna was lying on her back, her feet raised higher than her head. She glanced horizontally along the flowered coverlet, which, she discovered, was several pairs of cretonne curtains, stripped from the windows, and caught a glimpse of her
