’ ‘You need not be a nun,’ he said, leaning towards her. “That is as you will,” she said. If I did not love you en désespoir, I would assuredly blow off your head. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. She pushed between the pews, hoping to reach the sword first, while desperately holding on to her petticoats to keep them up, as her sword arm wavered. Montague Hill.
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