The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. Ramage seemed always fencing about the forbidden topic, probing for openings, and she wondered why she did not give him them. “I looked for you on the way home from The Big Apple, where were you?” Lucy smiled. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin.
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