" "Well," said Sister Prudence, "remember, I tried to save you some future heartaches. ‘Well! I hadn’t no notion as he’d got hisself married again. Where is he, Sir? Can I see him?" "No, that you can't," answered Mrs. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. “I don’t think she will,” she said. 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.
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