Winifred's face had a thoroughly amiable look. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. "You will find her new. ‘It is not for myself, you understand,’ pursued the man, in an unctuous tone that sickened the general, ‘but for this poor one. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. She was new, unlike any other woman he had met in all his wide travel. The next minute, I contrived, without either of 'em perceiving me, to convey it into my own pocket. Their conversation hung.
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