She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders. She despises one-piece swimsuits, she calls them ‘old hag bathing dresses’ no matter how low-cut they are. An inarticulate instinct which now found expression. ‘Wait! No time for that.
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