“You didn’t have to throw me through a window!” Jacques shouted, bruised and cut as he was. Thorax didn’t answer at first, trying to remove the wooden sign-board from his head, the kind that shopkeepers prop up outside their shops with chalkboards to advertise prices and wares. How the stallion had managed to get his head stuck so thoroughly in one was beyond her, and how he had his forehoof jammed through the top of an iron bound wooden crate of rotten produce was similarly a mystery to her. Jacques wouldn’t be drawn into explaining himself, muttering something about mirrors and bathrooms being the source of all evil in Prench.