His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. It begins with that queer piccolo solo. What does she look like?’ ‘Black hair. You don’t know about Mary because you live in Kent.
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