As she neared the bottom of the dip in Piccadilly she saw a woman approaching her from the opposite direction—a tall woman who at the first glance seemed altogether beautiful and fine. A dovecoloured kincob gown, embroidered with large trees, and made very low in front, displayed to the greatest possible advantage, the rounded proportions of her figure; while a high-heeled, red-leather shoe did not detract from the symmetry of a very neat ankle, and a very small foot. “The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. She even had books by H. Sebastian dug through the viscous layers of foul-smelling clay with a shovel, each successive insertion creating an obscene sucking noise that ate at her sanity. Sebastian crouched on the floor with a single dead victim, a young highwayman. Her eyes were insane with rage, crusted with yellow and green, only beginning to heal from her long sojourn underground.
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