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eight o'clock Dot was awake. She reached over to the table where her pocketbook lay. Powder, rouge, and lipstick in quick succession. You couldn't tell, she might get a visitor even at this hour. She ran the comb through her hair swiftly. Pretty good now. Let the world come!

The woman on the next bed stared at her. "Have a bad time?" she asked.

"Dot'sDot's [sic] brows wrinkled thoughtfully. "Not bad," she said. "Of course it hurts, but it ain't what it's supposed to be. Gee, I thought it'd be hell. No, it ain't bad. It's kind of—kind of like a cramp!"