“Ambulance!” the solicitor cried, and asked everyone to stand back and give Polly some room. “What can I do to help?” the vicar warbled. “I’ll take care of her.” Victoria Newcombe crouched on the Berber carpet with a handful of white linen napkins and took Carter’s place. She mopped her daughter’s brow and mouth, unable to control the yellowish-green emissions oozing from the girl’s lips. “Get everybody out of here,” she shrieked. “Polly! Polly!” Rex cleared the room and suggested to the bartender that the coffee and tea service be moved into the great hall. He opened the bay window to let in some air, since the stench of vomit proved nauseating. The vicar, succumbing to convulsions in turn, flopped into an armchair. Rex rushed to his aid and loosened his clerical collar. “Can I take you outside for some air, Reverend?” “Just need w-water … oh, let me be, dear boy,”
