Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being served. Her gaze flickered down to his pistol. He’s—He lives in a world of possibilities outside your imagination. 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. She could not go to him with a preachment against strong drink; she knew from experience that such a plan would be wasted effort. I don’t think women need to trouble about political questions. You mustn’t go clawing after a man that doesn’t belong to you—that isn’t even interested in you. Or perhaps my father once.
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