The questions continue for more than an hour until I feel squeezed dry. Finally, I am dismissed. I don’t remember walking back to Number 22. Perhaps I didn’t. I feel completely numb, entirely disoriented.
“Do you know where you are?” a woman’s voice asks. “Can you open your eyes?”
I try. Slowly, the room comes into focus. I’m in my bedroom at Number 22. A man stands in the doorway.
“Remember me?” he says with a concerned look on his face. “I’m Dr. McEwen. Three weeks ago, I gave you a clear medical certificate.”
“Oh,” I whisper. Mrs. Williamson stands next to the bed.
Dr. McEwen looks me over and shakes his head. “Miss Pigot, you’ve had a complete collapse. You must give yourself over to rest. It’s the best cure for you. I’m writing a certificate to keep you home for a year.”
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