The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. 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. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. Those who act wickedly bring misery on all connected with them.
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