Ned Goulding, to the loft. He was what is known as a concierge doctor—someone who, under our employ, made house calls at our disposal. Dr. Goulding, with his medical bag, arrived within a half-hour. He was a short, scholarly-looking man with balding hair, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a warm twinkle in his forest-green eyes. He followed me upstairs to my bedroom. Allee was bundled up in my bed, under the covers, in a trance-like state. She looked so frail, so helpless. Sadness swept over me at the sight of her. After carefully checking Allee over, he told me that she was badly bruised and in shock, but that she would be okay. There appeared to be no broken bones or head injury. The blood on her face was fortunately nothing more than a nosebleed, and the swelling of her eye would go away in a few days with the help of an icepack. He tactfully asked Allee if he could examine her privates. Allee weakly nodded. While he said there appeared to be no trauma there, he asked permission to swab her.
