She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. She screamed involuntarily—she had never in her life screamed before—and then she began to wriggle and fight like a frightened animal against the men who were holding her. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. Melusine ran to catch at his arm. “Of course it is okay!” Cathy’s voice rose in volume and in pitch. “He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. . .
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