Few people were qualified to comment on Mr Barracuda’s hair, and Miss Bobbilly did not number among them. What business was it of Miss Bobbilly’s if he glued his hair on back to front of a morning? He didn’t mind if she came to breakfast showing her slip, gruesome grey-brown fish-skin clinging as she queued for omelette. He didn’t loudly observe her sausagemeat stockinglegs in the pause after the captain struck the gong.
He didn’t nudge her just so during her constitutional so she dropped like scone batter into the foam. Except – oh, wait – he had done that. Oh yes.