He grabbed her wrist and prised the weapon from her fingers, ignoring her other hand that clawed at his to try to retain the trophy. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t. If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper. "Hell's curses!" roared Jonathan. She’ll have to wait for dinner,” he said, uncomfortably. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye.
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