‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. That I should be challenged by you of all people. Without you, we might have had some trouble. You are my wife, and I am determined to claim you. So, not exactly hopefully but earnestly, she returned to the feet of God.
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