Presently a faint feeling of curiosity concerning that odd expanse of white overhead filtered into her consciousness, gradually increasing in strength until it became a definite irritation, like the prolonged light scratching of a finger-nail up a surface of silk. She opened her eyes again reluctantly. It was still there, immediately above her—a formless stretch of dull white. She wondered whether it extended indefinitely, and her eyes travelled slowly along until they were arrested by a narrow line of demarcation. Here the expanse of white ceased abruptly, at right angles to a misty blue surface in the centre of which glimmered a square of light. Ann’s mind seemed to struggle up from some profound depth where it had lain quiescent and feebly and disjointedly signalled the words: “Ceiling ... wall ... window....” And finally, with an immense effort, “Room.”
After that the cogs of her mental machinery began to move in a more normal manner, though still slowly and confusedly. She recaptured the memory of a blurred murmur of voices and of some fiery liquid being poured down, her throat which stung and smarted abominably as it went down. Later had followed a pleasant dreamy consciousness of warmth which had brought with it realisation of the fact that previously she had been feeling terribly cold. Then voices again—notably Maria’s this time: “She’ll do now, Mrs. Hilyard, mum. ‘Tis only warmth she wants.”
Why did she want warmth? When it was summer. She was sure it was summer. She remembered seeing the sun overhead—hanging in the middle of the sky just like one of those solid-looking gold halos which the Old Masters used to paint round the head of a saint. At least ... had it been in the sky ... lately? To-day? And then, accompanied by a rush of blind terror, came recollection—of an overcast sky and grey, plunging sea, and of a wild, futile, suffocating struggle against some awful force that had tossed her hither and thither as a child might toss a ball, and had finally surged right over her, blotting out everything.
A little moan of horror escaped her, and immediately Robin’s dear familiar voice answered reassuringly:
“You’re quite safe, old thing—tucked up in bed. So don’t worry.”
He was bending over her, and she made an instinctive effort to sit up. The movement sent a stab of agony through her whole body, and she gasped out convulsively:
“It hurts!”
In a moment his arm was round her shoulders, and he had laid her gently back against her pillows.
“Yes. I expect you’re pretty well bruised from head to foot,” he said in a tone of commiseration.
Ann regarded him uncertainly.