“Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world. "When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. 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. The aunt laughed.
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