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. On their return, the jailers raised up Jonathan, who was weltering in his blood, and who appeared to be dying. She had never expected John capable of saying such things, of thinking such macabre ideas. It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli.
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