Sandra Drake sat in her perfect apartment on Telfu, and cursed in an unladylike manner. She was plying a needle with some difficulty, and the results of her work were decidedly amateurish. But her clothing was slowly going to pieces, and there was not a good tailor in nine light-years of Sandra Drake. The Telfan tailors didn't understand Solarian tailoring; Sandra was forced to admit that they were good--for Telfans. But for Solarians, they didn't come up to the accepted standards.…
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