She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. 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. Manning called. “What?” He replied. " "Force shall not make me yours till Jack is free," replied the widow, resolutely. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites.
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