Arrived
in the bedroom, she pounced mechanically on rouge and powder, and was
about to decorate herself when she suddenly paused with outstretched
hands. She was going out into the bright wintry sunlight, and she was
going to the doctor's house, full, perhaps, of those smart patients of
whom Valentine had once spoken to her. What sort of an apparition would
she be among them? She dropped her hands, hesitating. Then she turned
to a cupboard, drew out the one famous black gown, and put it on. She
crowned her head with Julian's hat, hid her hands in black silk gloves,
pulled down her veil and seized an umbrella. Somehow Cuckoo vaguely
connected respectability with umbrellas, although even the most vicious
are fain to carry them in showery London. Then she looked at herself in
the glass and wondered if her appearance were deceptive enough to trick
the sharp eyes of the patients. The glance reassured her. She seemed to
herself an epitome of black propriety, and she set forth with a more easy
heart. As she walked, her mind ran on before, seeking what this summons
meant and debating possibilities without arriving at conclusions. At
the end of Harley Street her walk, which had been rapid, achieved a
_ritardando_ and nearly came to a full close before she gained the
doctor's door.
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