So the years went on, and so it seemed they would go on forever, until the day the Doctor walked into the shop. Although his name was Kreutz, which sounded German, she thought he must be an Indian-an Indian from India, that is. He was tall and thin, so thin it was hard to know where there would be room inside his body for his vital organs, and he had a wonderfully long, narrow face, the face, she thought immediately, of a saint in one of those books they had in school about the foreign missions. He wore a very beautiful suit of dark-blue material, silk it might be except that it had a weight that made it hang really elegantly from his sloped, bony shoulders and his practically nonexistent hips. She had never been this close to a colored man before and she had to stop herself from staring at him, especially his hands, so slender and dark, with a darker, velvety line along the edges where the pale, dusty-pink skin of the palms began. He had a smell that also was dark, she thought, spicy and dark-she caught it distinctly when he came in; she was sure it was not cologne or shaving lotion but a perfume produced by his skin itself. She found herself wanting to touch that skin, to run her fingertips along it, just to feel the texture of it. And his hair, very straight and smooth and black, black with a purplish sheen, and combed back from his forehead in smooth waves; she wanted to touch that, too.

He had come in to ask for some herbal medicine stuff that Mr. Plunkett had never heard of. His voice was soft and light, yet deep, too, and he might almost have been singing rather than speaking. "Ah, this is most strange," he said when Mr. Plunkett told him he did not have the particular thing he wanted, "most most strange." Yet he did not seem put out at all. He said he had been to a number of chemist's shops but no one could help him.