A dovecoloured kincob gown, embroidered with large trees, and made very low in front, displayed to the greatest possible advantage, the rounded proportions of her figure; while a high-heeled, red-leather shoe did not detract from the symmetry of a very neat ankle, and a very small foot. Here she would find candy awaiting her, bits of ribbon, books. There were three exit doors. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. Kneebone, on his return from Manchester.
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