"'Cos there's a gale a-getting up as'll perwent you, young freshwater," replied the tar. 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. It’s one of our conventional superstitions.
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