She nodded:

"It's a bit broken."

"Where was it?"

"It was just on the other side of Putney Bridge, on the tramlines
there."

"Carthew wasn't hurt?"

"Oh, no! Carthew was simply splendid."

"How did it happen, exactly?"

"Oh, Arthur, you with your 'exactlys'! Don't ask me. I'm too tired.
Besides, I didn't see it. My eyes were shut" She closed her eyes.

Suddenly she sat up and put her hand on his shoulder, in a sort of
appeal, vaguely smiling. He tried to smile, but could not. Then her hand
dropped. A totally bewildered expression veiled the anxious kindness in
her eyes. The blood left her face until her cheeks were nearly as white
as the embroidered cloth on the night-tabla. Her eyes closed. She fell
back. She had fainted. She was just as if dead. Her hand was as cold as
the hand of a corpse.

Such was Mr. Prohack's vast experience of life that he had not the least
idea what to do in this crisis. But he tremendously regretted that
Angmering, Bishop, and the inventor of the motor-car had ever been born.