We'll never understand her if we don't establish this important point.
In describing her face, we are not describing her. She is somewhere behind it—and it's almost possible to tell. The occasion is rare and unsought for when she steps forward to look through her own eyes. At that moment, her entire aspect becomes unfamiliar. But since it is all we know of her, we shall describe her face.
Color is most immediately noticeable. Perhaps more accurately, it is the lack of color that strikes us. But she is rather more pale than dull. With some faces, the dusty pallor of grayed skin and tired hair seems to be the accumulation of despair made manifest. Christine seems to have accumulated nothing. Indeed, she appears to have carefully polished her image down until it reflects only the quiet blue of her uniform.
She is her own ornament. She wears her body in the same way that she wears her uniform—with aesthetic purpose. Existence is a duty, and appearance is part of that duty's fulfillment. The symbol displayed on her chest—the nurse's insignia—defines her place in the world, as surely as any scarlet letter. But unlike the Hester Prynne of legend, if Christine has committed a sin her symbol is its consolation.
Some people conscientiously forgo ornamentation, for the sake of appearing disciplined. They contain their louder thoughts with helmet-like hair, or assume expressions that seem set in granite. Some people believe that these severe disguises ensure their emotional anonymity. Christine is not so naïve. Her eyes, though almost glassy, are gentle; her smiles, though never out of turn, are soft; her hair, though carefully arranged, is luminescent. It is a disguise that no one would question. And no one wishes to, even as they turn to stare when one of these sober figures of discipline crosses her quiet path.