But, by Jove! you are fierce! You are like those Roman women who carry stilettos in their hair. 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. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. She let them fall and sped to the companion, where she stood for a moment, the moonlight giving her a celestial touch.
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