She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. Stay! I'll go myself. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. You think everything is harmless and simple, and so forth. 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.
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