“You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands. ‘Quite wrong, monsieur. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. She blew on the hand cannon and grabbed her bag of gunpowder. People are afraid of her that no one has ever dared to make fun of her.
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