She felt the woman's foolish amusement at the old cradle with the rag doll tucked under the patchwork quilt, and at her pitiful attempts at adorning the tawdry walls.

Without having seen more than the prints of her shoes in the path, Jean hated the woman who had blundered in here and had looked and laughed.

She hated the man who had come with the woman.
She went over to her desk and stood staring at the litter.

A couple of sheets of cheap tablet paper, whereon Jean had scribbled some verses of the range, lay across the quirt she had forgotten on her last trip.
They had prowled among the papers, even! They had respected nothing of hers, had considered nothing sacred from their inquisitiveness.

Jean picked up the paper and read the verses through, and her cheeks reddened slowly.
Then she discovered something else that turned them white with fresh anger.