The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. Mike and Shari sat at the kitchen table eating potato chips. ‘Do not mix yourself in mine, and perhaps you will not die. 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.
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