Then she cursed herself for his eyes went to the letter and came back to her face. She did not want to go to the doctor's people; however kindly that might be, they would be only curious strangers. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. Her teeth were chattering so hard that she had to clench them for fear of biting off her own tongue. The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said.
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