Just after Richard Magdalen’s speech had begun the doors opened and a tall woman wearing a drab grey suit entered the room carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee. There was nothing particularly apologetic about her manner, although she did remain leaning against the lintel of the door so as not to cause any further disruption. She began to sip her coffee in a wary, delicate fashion, and, but for the fact that se occasionally shook her head slowly at Magdalen’s more important point, gave no indication that she was listening to the presentation at all.
Some of the people seated in the back rows turned around occasionally to stare at the latecomer, something which was only natural since her manner invited curiosity and yet repelled enquiry.
Her name was Margaret Green, and she was an inspector of police.
An age more exact but less polite than out own might have called her a quadroon, which is to say that she was neither Black nor White, but a little bit of everything. There was, beneath the dull and badly cut fabric of her suit, the suggestion of an intense, perhaps even violent, energy suppressed somewhere within the tough frame of Inspector Green. This could be seen in her face especially, with its unruly black hair slicked and pinned back with fierce control, stretching back the skin or the forehead. Her eyes were dark, and deep with infinite surprise, framed by thick tadpole brows. Her nose was Black – short and wide, with nostrils as expressive as those of a racehorse – and her lips were White, thin and tight and stretched over fine, sharp teeth that were not human at all.
Other than that she passed her coffee cup back and forth between her sinewy hands, she might have been a statue. But, as Magdalen finished speaking and left the room, Green folded her arms and looked and him. In that instant her eyes seemed to grow deeper, the pupils flicking, and a slight tremor passed across her odd, expressive face.
Considerably over 100 words