Finally, at the exit into Regent’s Park, they ran against Miss Klegg. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. He walked hastily to the side of the broad pavement and summoned a fiacre. “Mom, this is the girl I asked to Prom, Lucy.
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