In the upper hall he paused to listen. There was only one prisoner in the ward. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. ” Shari said. By a sort of instinct. It’s well hidden, miss. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. Mistresses neither deserve consideration nor commiseration.
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