Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. The air was pungent and leaden. “You are not content then with stealing from me my name. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. ‘Ah, Madame Joan. She would be haunted by the visions of their mad faces in her dreams for the next hundred years. Smith's solitary orb followed in the same direction.
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