She pushed between the pews, hoping to reach the sword first, while desperately holding on to her petticoats to keep them up, as her sword arm wavered. Your fingers are even now as stiff as a schoolgirl’s. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. It is no good waiving the thing; it is true. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ5LjIzLjQgLSAyOC0wNi0yMDI0IDA5OjA3OjE4IC0gMTE1NjEyNDUx
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