The Doctor followed her, and closed the door. He placed her
in the patients' chair, opposite the windows. Even in London
the sun, on that summer afternoon, was dazzlingly bright.
The radiant light flowed in on her. Her eyes met it unflinchingly,
with the steely steadiness of the eyes of an eagle. The smooth
pallor of her unwrinkled skin looked more fearfully white than ever.
For the first time, for many a long year past, the Doctor felt his pulse
quicken its beat in the presence of a patient.

Having possessed herself of his attention, she appeared,
strangely enough, to have nothing to say to him. A curious apathy
seemed to have taken possession of this resolute woman. Forced to
speak first, the Doctor merely inquired, in the conventional phrase,
what he could do for her.

The sound of his voice seemed to rouse her. Still looking straight
at the light, she said abruptly: 'I have a painful question to ask.'

'What is it?'

Her eyes travelled slowly from the window to the Doctor's face.
Without the slightest outward appearance of agitation, she put
the 'painful question' in these extraordinary words:

'I want to know, if you please, whether I am in danger of going mad?'

Some men might have been amused, and some might have been alarmed.
Doctor Wybrow was only conscious of a sense of disappointment.
Was this the rare case that he had anticipated, judging rashly