The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. "The gentleman under the table," she answered. Her mind jumped with questions as fear raced through her and hardened into a bid for retaliation. “I will be off,” she declared. "I can't hold it much longer—it'll break my wrist. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative.
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