"Time!"
She thanked God, out loud, for that.
Perry stood for a while, his back toward her, sagging against the ropes. And English, one hand on his shoulder, was talking to him.
"Is he hurt?" she weakly asked the trainer.
He gave her a fleet glance.
"Some. Not bad." And louder to the other two:
"That's plenty."
A second later Perry nodded across the room to her and went to dress. But Jack English slid through the ropes and approached. There was some blood on his lip, and he wiped it away. She marveled at so little sign of conflict. He came straight to her, glistening with sweat. The trainer threw him a robe, which he wrapped about him to his very chin. She thought the welter-weight was bashful, too. And Irish—that without a doubt from his bright eyes.
"Your lad?" he asked.
"My—my what?"