A faint, delightfully humorous smile parted her lips. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. "Yes—what do you mean, Ma'am?" added Jack, staggering after her. She shut her lips hard, her jaw hardened, and she set herself to struggle with him. He laughed lightly. But his words were borne away by the driving wind. After all, it was really rather funny. Her fingers opened and the weapon fell from her nerveless grasp. ‘I knew it.
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