‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. 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 don't know what I think," Wood answered sulkily; and he bent his eyes upon the water, as if he wished to avert his attention forcibly from the scene. Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker. You seemed complete—without that. I can’t help you a cent.
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