Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. Wood, however, was too much excited to attend to the caution. The weed was all right. . . Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. “It was unpleasant while it lasted, but it is over —and my toasted scones are delicious. The floor was planked with oak, and covered with iron staples, hooks, and ringbolts, with heavy chains attached to them. Tell me what you think the island is like. Keeping hold of the doorhandle, she turned slowly.
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