The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. Robbed of their prey, the fury of the mob became ungovernable. Mr. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. She pointed. ‘Precisely. " "Well, well, I'm not within a minute," rejoined the turnkey. ’ She stopped, her lips tightening. Bah. The air was pungent and leaden. ” “Why not?” she asked quietly. She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. .
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