Tim said at last; but already he knew that she wasn’t. You could see it in his slack jaw, his blank, shocked eyes. “You’re crazy!” he repeated, as if still hoping, somehow, to convince himself that it was so. But of course this couldn’t happen, not with his degree of medical knowledge, and Iris’ rapier skill in directing his attention to the signs and symptoms that should have alerted him. The quick, agile way Miranda moved about the place, getting up from her chair and sitting down again quite effortlessly, with no careful lowering of the big, ungainly body; no heaving of it up again with the help of both hands, leaning forwards for greater thrust. Then there was her straight back, her easy, upright posture; the spring in her step as she moved and turned. And in addition to all this, there was the exaggerated, improbable size of her abdomen—not to mention the occasional slip-up in the shape of it, especially towards evening, when she had grown careless, and tended not to notice that her day-long padding had worked round to the left a little, or to the right, as the case might be.
