” She looked at him, pleading, miserable in her fancy gown. 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. Even this man-hunting machine was willing to grant the boy his honeymoon. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us.
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