Another memory crawled up from the pit of guilt. “Oh, good grief, did I really call him a long streak of-?”
“Yes,” said his wife. “Fred Colon came round this morning and told me all about it. And a very good description, I’d say. I went out with Ronnie Rust once. Bit of a cold fish.”
Another recollection burst like a ball of marsh gas inside Vimes’s head.
“Did Fred tell you where he said Rust could put his badge?”
“Yes. Three times. It seems to be weighing on his mind. Anyway, knowing Ronnie, he’d have to use a hammer.” - Jingo
Sybil stood in front of the mirror and tugged at the neckline of her dress. It was mostly a pointless exercise, she knew. No matter what she wore, there seemed to be altogether too much bosom for it, somehow. Even in a turtleneck, a Bosom that size would still manage to suggest cleavage, which was the sort of suggestion that makes well-bred young ladies of eighteen