The Suffragette in charge of the top storey at 94 knew something, fortunately, of first aid, was deft of hands and full of sympathy.

Vivie's--or Mr.
Michaelis's--lace-up boots were carefully removed and the poor crushed and bleeding toes washed with warm water.

The collar was taken off and the shirt unbuttoned revealing a terrible bruise on the sternum where the policeman's elbow had struck her--better however there, though it had nearly broken the breastbone, than on either side, as such a blow might have given rise to cancer.

As it was, Vivie when she coughed spat blood.
A cup of hot bovril and an hour's rest on a long chair and she was ready, supremely anxious indeed, to try the last adventure: an excursion across the roofs and up and down fire-escapes on to the parapet of her own especial dwelling, the old offices of Fraser and Warren at No.

88-90.