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It was actually a matter of fifteen minutes, that breathless swing
toward the floor, the mattress rising after her with scarcely a whisper
and her two bare feet landing patly into the pale-blue room slippers,
there beside the bed.
Then her bag, the beaded one on the end of the divan. The slow, taut
feeling for it and the floor that creaked twice, starting the sweat out
over her.
It was finally after more tortuous saving of floor creaks and the
interminable opening and closing of a door that Carrie Samstag, the
beaded bag in her hand, found herself face to face with herself in the
mirror of the bathroom medicine chest.
She was shuddering with one of the hot chills. The needle and little
glass piston out of the hand bag and with a dry little insuck of breath,
pinching up little areas of flesh from her arm, bent on a good firm
perch, as it were.
There were undeniable pockmarks on Mrs. Samstag's right forearm.
Invariably it sickened her to see them. Little graves. Oh! oh! little
graves! For Alma.


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