As Éowyn speaks, and her cheeks redden, Mercutio feels her own blood rising, her smile growing wider in unbelieving delight. She squeezes Éowyn's hands, then slides one up Éowyn's arm to grip her by the back of the neck, under that fall of fine fair hair.
"Oh, thou art then a war-horse, Éowyn -- is it not so? No cooing turtledove. Wilt thou be bested by me, then, within our wedding bed, my darling mare, my love?"
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As Éowyn speaks, and her cheeks redden, Mercutio feels her own blood rising, her smile growing wider in unbelieving delight. She squeezes Éowyn's hands, then slides one up Éowyn's arm to grip her by the back of the neck, under that fall of fine fair hair.
"Oh, thou art then a war-horse, Éowyn -- is it not so? No cooing turtledove. Wilt thou be bested by me, then, within our wedding bed, my darling mare, my love?"