She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. He had assumed that her leaving home was the point at issue, that everything turned on that, and that the sole alternative was obedience, and she had fallen in with that assumption until rebellion seemed a sacred principle. Challenge accepted. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. Sebastian was gone and another doctor came to bleed her, to rid her of the black humors that were causing the plague. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself. She was still fully dressed; so all she had to do was to pause before the mirror and give her hair a few pats. "Thank Heaven! I'm not basely born.
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