The little red-haired Scotch doctor dismissed Victoria's case in less than one minute.
'Varicose veins. Always wear a stocking. Here's your form. Settle terms at the truss office. Don't stand on your feet. Oh, what's your occupation?'
'Waitress at the P.R.R., Sir.'
'Ah, hum. You must give it up.'
'I can't, Sir.'
'It's your risk. Come again in a month.'
Victoria pulled up her stockings. Walking in a dream she went to the truss office where a man measured her calves. She felt numb and indifferent as to the exposure of her body. The man looked enquiringly at the left calf.
'V.H. for the left,' he called over his shoulder to the clerk.
At twelve o'clock she was in the P.R.R., revived by the familiar atmosphere. She even rallied one of the old chess players on a stroke of ill-luck. Towards four o'clock her ankles began to twitch.