Worse than any man. Wood's displeasure; and he was the more readily induced to do this, as the conversation began to turn upon his own affairs. Until at last I persuaded him to go to bed. She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. “I confess it. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’ Her eyes flew open.
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