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. There is some deep treachery hidden beneath his words. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. Always I have said I will take care of myself, and I have done so. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might.
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