They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. ’ ‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Sindlesham loudly, casting an anxious glance upon Melusine. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating. Were it not for your voice, I don't think I should know you.
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