Later--perhaps a few minutes, maybe hours--she had no way of knowing--Flora sat up. She looked out across an infinite vista of tile floor, which swept away to the distant horizon in all directions as far as the eye could see; and over all that vast plain, hollow-eyed women crouched at intervals of fifteen feet, in endless numbers, waiting. Flora stared into the eyes of the nearest reflection. It stared back, a stranger. She moved her head quickly, to try to catch a glimpse of the next woman--but no matter how fast she moved, the nearer woman anticipated her, interposing her face between Flora and all the others. Flora turned; a cold-eyed woman guarded this rank, too. "Please," Flora heard herself pleading. "Please, please--" She bit her lip, eyes shut. She had to get hold of herself. These were only mirrors--she knew that. Only mirrors. The other women--they were mere reflections. Even the hostile ones who hid the others--they were herself, mirrored in the walls. She opened her eyes. She knew there were joints in the glassy wall; all she had to do was find them, and the illusion of the endless plain would collapse. There--that thin black line, like a wire stretched from floor to ceiling--that was a corner of the room. She was not lost in an infinitude of weeping women on a vast plain; she was right there, in her own apartment--alone. She turned, finding the other corners. They were all there, all visible; she knew what they were.... But why did they continue to look like wires, setting apart the squares of floor, each with its silent, grieving occupant...? She closed her eyes again, fighting down the panic. She would tell Harry. As soon as he came home--it was only a few hours--she would explain it to him. "_I'm sick, Harry. You have to send me away to some place where I'll lie in a real bed, with sheets and blankets, beside an open window, looking out across the fields and forests. Someone--someone kind--will bring me a tray, with a bowl of soup--real soup, made from real chickens and with real bread and even a glass of milk, and a napkin, made of real cloth...._" She should find her bed, and deploy it, and rest there until Harry came, but she was so tired. It was better to wait here, just relaxing and not thinking about the immense floor and the other women who waited with her.... She slept. When she awoke, she sat up, confused. There had been a dream.... But how strange. The walls of the cell-block were transparent now; she could see all the other apartments, stretching away to every side. She nodded; it was as she thought. They were all as barren and featureless as her own--and Harry was wrong. They all had four Full-walls. And the other women--the other wives, shut up like her in these small, mean cells; they were all aging, and sick, and faded, starved for fresh air and sunshine. She nodded again, and the woman in the next apartment nodded in sympathy. All the women were nodding; they all agreed--poor things.