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. "Better than your company, Saint Giles," replied Sheppard; "so, shut the door, and make yourself scarce. Before a month has elapsed, your mother will be mine.
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