‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. She broke a cobblestone over his head and he was out. That’s the fact of the matter. We have a great deal to discuss, you and I. The island had evidently grown round this lagoon, approached it gradually from the volcanic upheaval—an island of coral and lava. 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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