“I can't 'old 'er no longer,” wailed the voice of our caretaker, and in a moment more there entered as perfect a specimen of one of the Furies as it has ever been my lot to meet.
She was a woman we had never seen before, a huge creature with a bloated face adorned by the traces of a recently blacked eye; her bonnet had been knocked over one ear in the scuffle with the caretaker, and her raw hands still clutched two curling-pins with the adjacent locks detached from her adversary's head.
“Madam,” I said, “what can we do for you?”
I was determined to let Fisher see the businesslike style in which we conducted our philanthropic operations.
“Where is he? Where the bloomin' blankness is he?” thundered the virago.
Poor Kate gave a little exclamation.
“Leave her to me,” I said, reassuringly. “Where is who, my good woman?”