“I didn’t do it.”
“Who?”
“Oh, a man.”
“How in the world—?”
“Against the barrier. He was trying to get in front of me. I told him he was breaking my arm, but he—” She left the sentence unfinished.
Hildegarde’s eyes followed the last trickle of cool water over the vivid purple and yellow and green of the swollen bruise. No doubt the hurt showed the ghastlier for the natural whiteness of the skin. “Well, whoever did it would be sorry, I think, if he saw your arm this morning.”
“Sorry?” She moistened the end of a towel and Hildegarde helped her to arrange a loose compress.
“Yes; sorry and ashamed.”
“You don’t know them as I do.”