Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above their chins. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen pairs of silk stockings. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her.
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