"Mercy!" screamed Mrs. Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. She saw her discarded nun’s habit still on the floor and scooped it up. 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. Her father intercepted her, and for a moment she and he struggled with their hands upon the latch.
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