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. I fancy that Sir John does not approve of me. ‘Speak, then. Their conversation hung. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. She twisted to meet him and folded into his embrace.
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