Her defence ceased rapidly to be in any sense ladylike, and became vigorous and effective; a strand of black hair that had escaped its hairpins came athwart Ramage’s eyes, and then the knuckles of a small but very hardly clinched fist had thrust itself with extreme effectiveness and painfulness under his jawbone and ear. Spurlock—for that's his real name—were married at high noon. She nursed at his neck as he peacefully slumbered through being killed. He fancied that when they had had time to reflect, they would regret it still more. She felt draggled and insulted beyond redemption.
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