‘Horse cut!’ Her face like a little white blancmange!
‘Come quick,’ she said.
‘I must hold a minute,’ he said, ‘might go off if I let go to get down. Badly cut?’
‘Blood running down solid! Like an apron,’ she said.
He was at last at her side. It was true. But not so much like an apron. More like a red, varnished stocking. He said: ‘You’ve a white petticoat on. Get over the hedge; jump it, and take it off…’
‘Tear it into strips?’ she asked. ‘Yes!’
He called to her; she was suspended halfway up the bank:
‘Tear one half off first. The rest into strips.’
She said: ‘All right!’ She didn’t go over the quickset as neatly as he had expected. No take off. But she was over…
The horse, trembling, was looking down, its nostrils distended, at the blood pooling from its near foot. The cut was j
