\"What's that?\" Lucy asked. For each costume she had devised a suitable form of matrimonial refusal. 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. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. .
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