'That one,' said Father Sylvester, pointing to a Japanese whore with tiny breasts and soft legs, her legs wrapped in crepe bandages so fine as to be almost transparent, 'she's perfect ....' She was too. Young enough to pass for his daughter, if needs be, not so young that she'd cry at being forced to do things she didn't want to do. Spit at him maybe from that down-turned bee sting of a mouth...but not cry. This one was long since cried-out. That was, if the emptiness in her dark brown eyes was anything to go by.