It never occurred to her to wonder what Mary had been doing in Morfe,
so evident was it that she had been shopping.
XVI
The doctor was at home, but he was engaged, at the moment, in the
surgery.
The maid-servant asked if she would wait.
She waited in the little cold and formal dining-room that looked
through two windows on to the Green. So formal and so cold, so utterly
impersonal was the air of the doctor's mahogany furniture that her
fear left her. It was as if the furniture assured her that she would
not really _see_ Rowcliffe; as for knowing him, she needn't worry.
She had sent in her card, printed for convenience with the names of
the three sisters:
Miss Cartaret.
Miss Gwendolen Cartaret.
Miss Alice Cartaret.
She felt somehow that it protected her. She said to herself, "He won't
know which of us it is."
* * * * *
Rowcliffe was washing his hands in the surgery when the card was
brought to him. He frowned at the card.
"But--You've brought this before," he said. "I've seen the lady."
"No, sir. It's another lady."
"Another? Are you certain?"
"Yes, sir. Quite certain."
"Did she come on a bicycle?"
"No, sir, that was the lady you've seen. I think this'll be her
sister."
Rowcliffe was still frowning as he dried his hands with fastidious
care.
"She's different, sir. Taller like."
"Taller?"
"Yes, sir."
Rowcliffe turned to the table and picked up a probe and a lancet and
dropped them into a sterilising solution.
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