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. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. Lucy could see the resemblance of Martin to both of his parents as plain as day. He had scarcely completed his toilet, when he was startled by a noise at the door, and heard his own name pronounced in no friendly accents. But, whether she likes it or not, I aim to be on hand to get her out of it.
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