Rosalie and Perrine went out together, Rosalie holding her wounded hand, which was the left, in her right hand.
"Won't you lean on me, Rosalie?" asked little Perrine anxiously. "I am sure it must be dreadful."
"No, I'm all right; thank you," said Rosalie. "At least I can walk."
"Well, then, it isn't much then, is it?" asked Perrine.
"One can't tell the first day. It's later that one suffers. I slipped, that's how it happened."
"You must have been getting tired," said Perrine, thinking of her own feelings.
"Sure, it's always when one is tired that one is caught," said Rosalie. "We are quick and sharp first thing in the morning. I wonder what Aunt Zenobie will say!"
"But it wasn't your fault," insisted Perrine.
"I know that," said Rosalie, ruefully. "Grandmother will believe that, but Aunt Zenobie won't. She'll say it's 'cause I don't want to work."
On their way through the building several men stopped them to ask what was the matter. Some pitied Rosalie, but most of them listened indifferently, as though they were used to such accidents. They said that it was always so: one gets hurt the same as one falls sick; just a matter of chance, each in his turn, you today, and me tomorrow. But there were some who showed anger that such an accident could have occurred.