She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. Some day older people, perhaps, will trouble to understand younger people, and there won’t be these fierce disruptions; there won’t be barriers one must defy or perish. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. In the northwest angle, there was a small pen for female offenders, and, on the south, a more commodious enclosure appropriated to the master-debtors and strangers.
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