She pulled a few strands of her hair from her head to leave with Michelle’s. Neither combatant could use his sword; and in strength the fugitive was evidently superior to his antagonist. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. But whither The Tigress was bound or who the owner was lay beyond the reach of Ah Cum's deductions. How the deuce did I ever manage to father such a brainless nincompoop? A nun, for God’s sake! A confounded Catholic nun.
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