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. Scissors with which to cut her hair, just in case. Her faith in human beings revived. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. “We may just as well have our talk afterwards,” she said, “and I need not keep poor Mr. Brother and Sister VIII.
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