‘Pretty girl, that Christine Whatshername,’ Margaret said. ‘Yes, isn’t she?’ ‘Wonderful figure she’s got, hasn’t she?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Not often you get a figure as good as that with a good-looking face.’ ‘No.’ Dixon tensed himself for the inevitable qualification. ‘Pity she’s so refained, though.’ Margaret hesitated, then decided to gloss this epithet. ‘I don’t like women of that age who try to act the gracious lady. Bit of a prig, too.’ Dixon, who’d arrived at similar conclusions already, found he didn’t much want to have them confirmed in this way. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Can’t really tell at
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