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. The clock struck half-past ten. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably.
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