She pulled up the covers and tried to sleep again.

The day would be long enough, at best.

There was nothing to do, unless she took that queer old horse with withers like the breastbone of a lean Christmas turkey and hips that reminded her of the little roofs over dormer windows, and went for a ride.

And if she did that, there was nowhere to go and nothing to do when she arrived there.
In a very few days Lorraine had exhausted the sights of Quirt Creek and vicinity.

If she rode south she would eventually come to the top of a hill whence she could look down upon further stretches of barrenness.