This had been written a little at a time during Nance's first week at
Forest Home. She had arrived in such a burning state of indignation that
it required the combined efforts of the superintendent and the matron to
calm her. In fact her spirit did not break until she was subjected to a
thorough scrubbing from head to foot, and put to bed on a long porch
between cold, clean sheets. She was used to sleeping in her underclothes
in the hot close air of Snawdor's flat, with Fidy and Lobelia snuggled up
on each side. This icy isolation was intolerable! Her hair, still damp,
felt strange and uncomfortable; her eyes smarted from the recent
application of soap. She lay with her knees drawn up to her chin and
shivered and cried to go home.
Hideous thoughts tormented her. Who'd git up the coal, an' do the
washin'? Would Mr. Snawdor fergit an' take off Rosy's aesophedity bag,
so she'd git the measles an' die like the baby? What did Mr. Lavinski
think of her fer not comin' to work out the slipper money? Would Dan ever
git his place back at the factory after he'd been in the House of Refuse?
Was Mr. Smelts' leg broke plum off, so's he'd have to hobble on a
peg-stick?
She cowered under the covers. "God aint no friend of mine," she sobbed
miserably.
When she awoke the next morning, she sat up and looked about her. The
porch in which she lay was enclosed from floor to ceiling in glass, and
there were rows of small white beds like her own, stretching away on each
side of her.
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