Supper was over. ‘We needn’t murder Lucia. 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. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue.
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