The courtesan was startled out of her manic reverie by the sound of scuffling. She turned in her tracks, peeling away the door and peering out. Even someone reputedly disinterested and/or oblivious to the suffering of others could not have ignored such thumps.
"What? What is this?" she exclaimed softly to herself. She decided--to her credit, perhaps--that a dramatic entrance ought not to be the order of the day. Instead, she cautiously stepped out from the threshold and padded toward the scene of the incident.
Mrs. Fry was holding her lip as though she had been punched by a pugilist. And indeed, she could smell the blood of it all. It made her stomach growl. The two young men seemed to be scuffling--but this was not one of the idiotic scrapes so common to youth. She had seen enough of those to know. And indeed, that the priest was brandishing the cross seemed to correlate with her deduction.
She shrank back from that powerful symbol, trying not to show too intensely her instinct to recoil and, well, run from or attack the bearer. It was a confusing situation indeed.