Her blue serge shoulder was extraordinarily wet and immovable.
She looked along the cloud.

Her enemy was not there.

There was a round hole in the cloud, and as she leaned painfully towards it, she could see a few of the lights of London, and something falling spasmodically towards them.
The cloud had been shaken to its foundations by the two explosions, and the German witch, who had been seated perhaps on a seam in the material, or at any rate on one of the less stable parts of the fabric, had fallen through.

Her parachute cloak, in passing through the hole in the cloud, had been turned inside out above her head, and rendered useless.

Over and about her falling figure her broomstick darted helplessly, uttering curious sad cries, like a seagull's.
Even as the English witch watched her enemy's disaster, the larger part of the cloud, weakened by all the shock and movement, broke away with a hissing sound.