Thomas Moran Monterey CoastThomas Moran Grand CanyonGrand Canyon of the Yellowstone
Examineme," she said. Her voice wavered, but not for an instant her extraordinary resolution. She was a changed woman.
"Examine you how, Anastasia? If you mean play Doctor, I don't see --"
"Letme do the seeing." She closed her eyes for some moments, as if gathering strength to proceed with her remarkable, nonplussing self-assertion. Lifting herself onto an examination-table near the fluoroscope, she said grimly, "Come here, George."
I went. She leaned back on her arms.
"Look me over," she ordered. "Don't mind if I blush or act embarrassed. Examine me, every square millimeter. Don't touch me yet; just look."
I am not made of stone: breathing heavily, and assisted by my flashlight and the various lenses of my stick, I inspected every pore, hair, fold, crease, protuberance, process, and orifice of her. I learned that the hairs of Anastasia's limbs, head, armpits, and pubes grew darker and thicker in that order; that her brown irises were flecked with black and green; that her scalp was more white, herlabia minora more tan, than I'd have supposed. Her nostrils were not quite a pair; there were silver fillings in three of her
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