"Bury her in Willesden churchyard, as she requested, on Sunday," said Jack. 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. "I'm only a benighted fool; and having said that, I have said everything. \"How's it going, Lucy?\" She turned. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness.
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