separate apartment. She went to bed. Even in bed she felt cold. She
thought:

"It will be always like this, always, until I die."

And she thought of her husband. How could he have said:

"You--have not had one cold since you came here"?

She would have to be ill, to cough before he could understand what she
suffered!

And she was filled with indignation, the angry indignation of a weak,
timid being.

She must cough. Then, perhaps, he would take pity on her. Well, she would
cough; he should hear her coughing; the doctor should be called in; he
should see, her husband, he should see.

She got out of bed, her legs and her feet bare, and a childish idea made
her smile:

"I want a furnace, and I must have it. I shall cough so much that he'll
have to put one in the house."

And she sat down in a chair in her nightdress. She waited an hour, two
hours. She shivered, but she did not catch cold. Then she resolved on a
bold expedient.

She noiselessly left her room, descended the stairs, and opened the gate