Her thin frame was shaking and she kept stealing glances at the woman on the bed. Long dark hair that would probably be brown once it was washed. Sh... wore a bulky sweater that hid most of her figure, but from the thinness of her wrists and legs, I expected her breasts would be small. Time enough to find out later, I thought. She?d been crying, but even with the tear streaks and red eyes, I could see that Billy had been right: cute and mousy rather than pretty. Or, at least, she would be. ’ ‘Hello, Florence,’ said Wendy pleasantly. ‘Hello, madam,’ she respectfully replied. ‘Florence,’ I told her, ‘give me an account of yourself.’ So Florence told her story. She was Nigerian and her family had sent her to England to study, which she had been doing diligently but without much enthusiasm. For the last five or six years — she was twenty now — her life had been dominated by her breasts. Even in a tribe in which large breasts were usual and highly valued, the women in her family were. More

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