For two days I stayed in bed, conveying to Mrs. Tupper by signs, as I could barely speak, that I had a sore throat -- a common enough ailment at the time of year; I am sure she thought nothing more of it. The high ruffled collar of my nightgown hid my bruised neck.

It could not, however, comfort my bruised and ruffled feelings. While accustomed to physical pain -- often enough as a child I had fallen from a bicycle, a horse, a tree -- I found myself not at all accustomed to being hurt by another human being in such an offhanded way. It was not only my sore throat that prevented me from eating the soups and jellies Mrs. Tupper offered me. It was the malice of what had happened that made me sick.

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