Section 66 is reluctant to go in
There was rustling inside that sounded like the unwrapping of Christmas paper or taffeta petticoats, and a flustered girl emerged and surged down the hall without a word. ‘God what was going on?’
Vernon entered the room. Mr Snapper sagged in the room’s only armchair, in that kind of uncomfortable slouch you adopt when you want to hide your middle-aged spread, or you’ve struggled to get out of the chair and have failed. It looked as if the seat was slippery and he was sinking fast. His haircut was reminiscent of a hairpiece accidently worn back to front, and he sported a droopy handlebar moustache that hid his emotions effectively and slurred his Californian drawl. Perhaps he had no teeth.
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