“There ought to be a Censorship of Books. Returning to the audience-chamber, Blueskin had the Jew brought before him. 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 could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation. He stopped before her suddenly. ‘Truth is, it’s Gerald who’s put me in the devil’s own temper, ma’am. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. “I refuse.
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