Poynsett had been
absent.
They fell back, staring and uttering expressions of rough wonder at
the advance of the lady in her glistening silk, but as she knelt
down by the poor creature, held her on her arm, bathed her face with
scent on her own handkerchief, and held to her lips the champagne
that Raymond poured out, there was a kind of hoarse cheer.
"I think her arm is put out," said Rosamond; "she ought to go to the
Infirmary."
"Send for a cab," said Raymond to the policeman; but at that moment
the girl opened her eyes, started at the sight of him and tried to
hide her face with her hand.
"It is poor Fanny Reynolds," said he in a low voice to Rosamond,
while the policeman was gruffly telling the woman she was better,
and ought to get up and not trouble the lady; but Rosamond waved off
his too decided assistance, saying:
"I know who she is; she comes from my husband's parish; and I will
take her home. You would like to go home, would you not, poor
Fanny?"
The woman shuddered, but clung to her; and in a minute or two an
unwilling fly had been pressed into the service, and the girl lifted
into it by Raymond and the policeman.
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