“Want to see my fangs?” She asked. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. It has something to do with the fact that my Mom had them when she was only seventeen.
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