The unexpected twist—his disclosure to McClintock—had given Spurlock but temporary relief. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. Jonathan shook his head. 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 woollen-draper was no despicable trencherman in a general way; but his feats with the knife and fork were child's sport compared with those of Mr. That is what I don't understand.
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