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unconnected with disease.

She had a strange feeling of loss of self, of being a stranger to
herself, and the world in which she moved seemed a vague and shrouded
world. It lacked sharpness of definition. Its customary vividness was
gone. She had lapses of memory, and was continually finding herself
doing unplanned things. Thus, to her astonishment, she came to in the
back yard hanging up the week's wash. She had no recollection of having
done it, yet it had been done precisely as it should have been done.
She had boiled the sheets and pillow-slips and the table linen. Billy's
woolens had been washed in warm water only, with the home-made soap, the
recipe of which Mercedes had given her. On investigation, she found she
had eaten a mutton chop for breakfast. This meant that she had been to
the butcher shop, yet she had no memory of having gone. Curiously, she
went into the bedroom. The bed was made up and everything in order.

At twilight she came upon herself in the front room, seated by the
window, crying in an ecstasy of joy. At first she did not know what this
joy was; then it came to her that it was because she had lost her baby.
"A blessing, a blessing," she was chanting aloud, wringing her hands,
but with joy, she knew it was with joy that she wrung her hands.

The days came and went. She had little notion of time. Sometimes,
centuries agone, it seemed to her it was since Billy had gone to jail.
At other times it was no more than the night before. But through it
all two ideas persisted: she must not go to see Billy in jail; it was a
blessing she had lost her baby.

Once, Bud Strothers came to see her. She sat in the front room and
talked with him, noting with fascination that there were fringes to
the heels of his trousers. Another day, the business agent of the union
called. She told him, as she had told Bud Strothers, that everything was
all right, that she needed nothing, that she could get along comfortably
until Billy came out.

A fear began to haunt her. WHEN HE CAME OUT. No; it must not be. There
must not be another baby. It might LIVE. No, no, a thousand times no. It
must not be. She would run away first. She would never see Billy again.
Anything but that. Anything but that.

This fear persisted. In her nightmare-ridden sleep it became an
accomplished fact, so that she would awake, trembling, in a cold sweat,
crying out. Her sleep had become wretched. Sometimes she was convinced
that she did not