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. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. ” She said. ” “But your dinner!” she protested. Ireton; for may I be hanged myself if I don't believe he'll be as good as his word. ” He sat like a man turned to stone. . .
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