Anne follows Greta down the hall, taking care not to brush against anything. She feels like she's never taken such care in her life, but Greta keeps everything so clean that it's difficult not to feel like she doesn't belong here. The least she can do is not make more mess than she already represents.
She squints against the harsh bathroom light while Greta looks her over, not entirely sure what Greta intends to do until she's plainly indicating she wants the coat and hat removed. This is an obvious step, and yet Anne balks slightly. Jack's adapted to the fashion and customs of this place quicker than she has, and she still gets uneasy taking off pieces of what have always felt like her armor. But it's only Greta. Greta's never wanted anything from them; she only likes to help.
Anne looks away and slides her coat down from her shoulders, handing it gingerly over, hesitating a bit longer before she takes her hat off and sets it with even greater care on the corner of the sink. There's not too much blood on it, at least.
Looking down at herself, it seems the bulk of it hit her front through the open coat, staining the shirt and bodice beneath it. She frowns at the mess, wondering just how well those machines can handle this sort of thing, and if perhaps it would be easier to just go to Eliot's like this. He probably wouldn't like it. Jack probably wouldn't either. But she can't imagine anything Greta can do that won't take more time and energy than she owes.
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She squints against the harsh bathroom light while Greta looks her over, not entirely sure what Greta intends to do until she's plainly indicating she wants the coat and hat removed. This is an obvious step, and yet Anne balks slightly. Jack's adapted to the fashion and customs of this place quicker than she has, and she still gets uneasy taking off pieces of what have always felt like her armor. But it's only Greta. Greta's never wanted anything from them; she only likes to help.
Anne looks away and slides her coat down from her shoulders, handing it gingerly over, hesitating a bit longer before she takes her hat off and sets it with even greater care on the corner of the sink. There's not too much blood on it, at least.
Looking down at herself, it seems the bulk of it hit her front through the open coat, staining the shirt and bodice beneath it. She frowns at the mess, wondering just how well those machines can handle this sort of thing, and if perhaps it would be easier to just go to Eliot's like this. He probably wouldn't like it. Jack probably wouldn't either. But she can't imagine anything Greta can do that won't take more time and energy than she owes.