"Don't make an effort. Don't try to talk," he said, and turned away to one of the beds by the door.
Hours later, when one of the nurses brought her a cup of broth, she struggled to speak collectedly. "What did the doctor tell me his name is? I don't seem to remember things."
"That's because you're still weak. His name is Faraday. He is a celebrated surgeon, and he operated on you because he brought you to the hospital. He was driving by when you were struck. The operation saved your life."
"Does he come often?"
"Not as a rule. He hasn't time to visit the patients. But he is interested in your case. It is an unusual one, and he is very much interested."
"Does he know who I am?"
"Yes, the woman you rented a room from read about the accident in the papers, and came to identify you. Can you remember anything of this last week?"
"Only that my head hurt me. Yes, and figures passing to and fro against white walls."
"It was a wonder you weren't killed. But you're all right now. You'll be as well as you ever were in a little while."
"I feel so queer with my head shaved. I can feel it even with the bandages."