The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. before them soldiers. 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. " "Your prisoner!" echoed Jonathan, derisively.
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