Her voice, hard and incisive, kept talking, stopping, talking again, repeating it to friend after friend, and making it hard, abrupt and real, stripping it of its mystery, making it naked and commonplace, like a newspaper item--Amy's death.

And Ethel sat rigid, listening.
"Amy's best friend! Oh, how strange!" Suddenly she remembered things Amy had said about this friend--admiring things.

She bit her lips.
"What a queer time for hating a person.

But I hate you--oh, I hate you!" She went to the window and frowned at the street and slowly again got control of herself.

"What's wrong with me?
Why am I so dull I ought to be doing something.