I love her too much to rely upon my uncertain powers of recollection, so I dug up the book. I fear this will give a SLIGHTLY wrong impression...Dot IS a good girl still...but it's rather nice at encapsulating that the two media are different indeed.
[Phryne] caught sight of herself in the mirror-shiny black pillar of the glove shop, and paused to tidy her hair. In the reflection she noticed the set, white face of a girl, standing behind her, unaware of Phryne's regard, who was slowly biting into her lower lip. The horror on that face gave Phryne a start, and she spun about. The girl was leaning on the opposite pillar. She was dressed in a light cotton shift of deep, shabby black, and her legs were bare. She was innocent of gloves, hat or coat and had scuffed house-slippers on her feet. Her long, light-brown hair was dragged back into an unbecoming bun, which was coming adrift from its pins. Her blue eyes stared out of what would have been a fresh, milk-maid's complexion, if she had not been tinged heliotrope by some illness or internal stress. On impulse, Phyrne crossed the Arcade and came up to the girl, wondering what it was she held concealed in her hands close to her body. As she approached, she identified it -- it was a knife.
'Hello, I was just going to get some tea,' she said casually, as though meeting an old acquaintance. 'Would you like to come too? Just over here,' she added chattily, leading the unresisting girl by the arm. 'Now, sit down, and we'll order. Waitress! Two teas, please. Sandwiches?' she asked and the girl nodded. 'And sandwiches,' added Phryne. 'I think that you'd better give me that knife, don't you?'
The girl handed over the knife, still mute, and Phyrne put it in her pocket. It was an ordinary kitchen knife, such as is used to chop vegetables, and it was razor-sharp. Phryne hoped that it would not slit the pocket-lining of her new coat.
Tea was brought. The Moorish arches, hung with artificial flowers and lanterns, were soothing, and the light was not harsh. Phyrne dispensed tea and sandwiches, and watched her companion becoming more lively with each mouthful.
'Thanks, Miss,' said the girl. 'I was famished.'
'That's all right,' Phyrne said easily. 'Some more?'
The girl nodded again, and Phyrne ordered some more food. A jazz orchestra was damaging the night somewhere, but not near enough to preclude speech. The young woman finished the sandwiches, leaned back, and sighed. Phryne offered her a gasper, and she refused rather indignantly.
'Nice girls don't smoke,' she said trenchantly. 'I mean...'
'I know what you mean,' smiled Phyrne. 'Well, what about it? What are you doing here?'
'Waiting for him,' said the girl. 'To kill him. ... '
no subject
[Phryne] caught sight of herself in the mirror-shiny black pillar of the glove shop, and paused to tidy her hair. In the reflection she noticed the set, white face of a girl, standing behind her, unaware of Phryne's regard, who was slowly biting into her lower lip. The horror on that face gave Phryne a start, and she spun about. The girl was leaning on the opposite pillar. She was dressed in a light cotton shift of deep, shabby black, and her legs were bare. She was innocent of gloves, hat or coat and had scuffed house-slippers on her feet. Her long, light-brown hair was dragged back into an unbecoming bun, which was coming adrift from its pins. Her blue eyes stared out of what would have been a fresh, milk-maid's complexion, if she had not been tinged heliotrope by some illness or internal stress. On impulse, Phyrne crossed the Arcade and came up to the girl, wondering what it was she held concealed in her hands close to her body. As she approached, she identified it -- it was a knife.
'Hello, I was just going to get some tea,' she said casually, as though meeting an old acquaintance. 'Would you like to come too? Just over here,' she added chattily, leading the unresisting girl by the arm. 'Now, sit down, and we'll order. Waitress! Two teas, please. Sandwiches?' she asked and the girl nodded. 'And sandwiches,' added Phryne. 'I think that you'd better give me that knife, don't you?'
The girl handed over the knife, still mute, and Phyrne put it in her pocket. It was an ordinary kitchen knife, such as is used to chop vegetables, and it was razor-sharp. Phryne hoped that it would not slit the pocket-lining of her new coat.
Tea was brought. The Moorish arches, hung with artificial flowers and lanterns, were soothing, and the light was not harsh. Phyrne dispensed tea and sandwiches, and watched her companion becoming more lively with each mouthful.
'Thanks, Miss,' said the girl. 'I was famished.'
'That's all right,' Phyrne said easily. 'Some more?'
The girl nodded again, and Phyrne ordered some more food. A jazz orchestra was damaging the night somewhere, but not near enough to preclude speech. The young woman finished the sandwiches, leaned back, and sighed. Phryne offered her a gasper, and she refused rather indignantly.
'Nice girls don't smoke,' she said trenchantly. 'I mean...'
'I know what you mean,' smiled Phyrne. 'Well, what about it? What are you doing here?'
'Waiting for him,' said the girl. 'To kill him. ... '