Here he laughed.
“Be careful. Your tongue is getting rather out of bounds already.”
“I think you would rather have enjoyed my being hurt.”
“Well, what can you expect in a country where vivisection is disallowed? One must take what little pleasure one can get.”
Here he led the way back into the outer room. When they were both through he turned the key and put it in his pocket.
“I rarely go in there,” he said. “Few folks are fool enough to come to me. I have no ambition to become a doctor, and I shun the popularity that hangs upon the quack.”
They were both standing by the table now, one on either side. Rosalie’s eyes were fixed dreamily on a large glass ink-stand in the centre of the table. She was beginning to feel indescribably tired. There was nothing very wonderful in this, the operation had lasted longer than she was aware. But though tired, she was feeling remarkably light-hearted, longing to get outside and give herself two or three decided pinches to become convinced she was awake, and that this great good fortune of her prayer had at last come to her.
But over and above the tired feeling and the unreality came gratitude to her deliverer. The thought of this made her suddenly raise her eyes and look across at him.
Certainly his face was very proud, and the shadows lurking underneath his eyes and at the corners of his mouth gave it a dark, forbidding expression. It was not altogether pleasant.
“The feature I like best is his nose,” thought Rosalie. “The one that frightens me most is his mouth; the one that most interests me is his eyes.”