For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. 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. And this shall be your diet till you die. ’ And with that he went off to the City, stern and silent, leaving his bacon on his plate—a great slice of bacon hardly touched.
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