She wondered, standing there still faintly sick, how the self of a week before could possibly have knelt in that wild garden, pulled up those innocently wicked plants, broken off the roots to be dropped in her handbag, and thought: _This way would solve everything and hardly hurt at all._ Yet the self of a week before had done that; the self of a few hours past had glanced at the brandy bottle, death dissolved and waiting, and had thought: _Have it out with Mother--there could be some of his work, maybe buried in the attic where my searching never uncovered it--and then, then probably_-- The self pausing on the landing, hand letting go the rail and moving again softly, shelteringly, over the secret life in the womb, had thought practically and sensibly: _Throw away that stunk-up mess as soon as you get home._ And the self of twenty minutes later, arriving at the apartment with a burden of abnormal fatigue and drowsiness, had forgotten--(_is there any true forgetting this side of death?_)--forgotten all about bottle and canister, everything except bed. The self on the landing thought: _It's all right, Funny Thing, look, it's all right, I'm going to bear you. I'm going to take care of you. I can do that. I will._ Had wondered, incidentally, if the small bra wasn't already a bit tight. The girl on the landing ran a finger lightly along the column of her neck--wasn't there slightly more fullness, softness? _Should go to a dentist too--and--oh, lots of little chores. Never mind anyhow, Funny Thing, never mind the details, it's going to be all right for you and me._ The self seated on the cot where Kowalski had left her stood up uncertainly, with a sense of listening, although she knew Kowalski was gone, Watson was keeping quiet, the night also was in a deep hush with no longer that occasional whine of wind beyond the barred glass. No one had spoken. _Unless I did._ She glanced at the window, uneasy as though the blank of winter night beyond it had paled, and might show again some light or color if she stared patiently enough. No. Not that window. Not that blank. And no true sound of speech. She stood with eyes closed and hands pressed over her ears. Waiting; and hearing at least the dull noise--muffled, as it ought to be on the other side of a closed door--of a bottle, heavy glass, drawn across resonant wood from the back of a shelf. Faint pop of a cork and clink of glass, and tap of high heels: "Callie, come on now! I poured a little drink for you." And that fool lying frozen on the bed down there--why, how long had that fool held herself frozen, knowing everything?