Mickey Silver, as she’s known to all except her parents and certain official records, is just average in height and build and appearance, no different than thousands of dark-haired, dark-eyed young women in London, save that she is as tall as most men. She usually dresses in the cheap finery of the slums, though sometimes in the trousers and jacket and cloth cap of a young man. She wears little cosmetics, just a pat of powder and a dab of lipstick, and whatever cheap perfume has taken her fancy (none of this when in boy garb, to be sure).

To see her wend her way through a crowded street, deftly avoiding people and obstacles, and physically fending off those who would interfere with her course, proves that she’s as shifty and strong as any acrobat on the stage.

Engaging her in conversation, if she so chooses, reveals that she’s well-read and well-spoken for her class, which her diction betrays as common indeed (unless she’s taking pains to seem otherwise, which she can). Her voice is rather high-pitched and slightly hoarse and she can’t sing worth a pin. She can be merry in the right company and her laugh—if a bit raucous—usually prompts an answering smile, at least. She can also unleash a string of invective to make a dock walloper blanch.