The strange man at the counter had given Constance a small, hard card he called a key, and then pushed a stack of fluffy white towels at her. At a loss what to do with it all, she turned when the doors were shoved open, and took in the practically naked young woman hobbling in on crutches. The poor dear.

"Here. Let me help," she offered, rushing forward and stopping beside the girl, who was not only in a state of déshabille, but had been sorely used. She was as scarred as some musketeers. Or at least the cadets.