If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. "Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. 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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