“The very question, my dear sister,” she said, “tells me that I have succeeded. 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. Wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of me, even I knew anything, which I don’t. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love.
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