“There is something to be said for the lady-like theory after all,” she admitted. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding. 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. She passed down the stairs and into the street. When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr.
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