“The old ladies might have let you bleed to death, mightn’t they?”
Bob looked sheepish, and Gertrude Canterton called Lynette away.
“Go to the nursery, Lynette. It is tea time.”
Lynette chose to enter the house by the library window, and, finding old Lady Marchendale sitting there in the arm-chair, put up her face to be kissed. She liked Lady Marchendale because she had pretty white hair, and eyes that twinkled.
“Did you see Bob’s bloody hand?”
“What, my dear?”
“Did you see Bob’s bloody hand?”
“I can’t quite hear, dear.”
Lynette put her mouth close to Lady Marchendale’s ear, and spoke with emphasis.
“Did—you—see—Bob’s—bloody—hand?”