Nevertheless, she was still fighting. She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the robbery. I was one of the few. Mrs. “Is that all you have to say?” Michelle challenged her.
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