Although not
beautiful she was very good to look at, with large blue eyes of a
deep tenderness and sympathy, even features, and a wonderful fold
of rich brown hair held in place by a satiny net.
She started when she saw Chick's wide open eyes; then smiled, a
motherly smile and compassionate. She was dressed in a manner at
once becoming and odd, to one unaccustomed, in a gown that draped
the entire figure, yet left the right arm and shoulder bare. Chick
noticed that arm especially; it was white as marble, moulded full,
and laced with fine blue veins. He had never seen an arm like
that. Nor such a woman. She might have been forty.
She came over to the bed and placed a hand on Chick's forehead.
Again she smiled, and nodded.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
Now this is a strange thing; Watson could not account for it. For,
although she did not speak English, yet he could understand her
quite well. At the moment it seemed perfectly obvious; afterward,
the fact became amazing.
He answered in the same way, his thoughts directing his lips. And
he found that as long as he made no conscious attempt to select
the words for his thought, he could speak unhesitatingly.
"Where am I?"
She smiled indulgently, but did not answer.
"Is this the--Blind Spot?"
"The Blind Spot! I do not understand."
"Who are you?"
"Your nurse. Perhaps," soothingly, "you would like to talk to the
Rhamda.
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