Here again instinct guided her. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. Entering the workshop, he found the blacksmith occupied in heating the tire of a cart wheel. That is I saw her. A very familiar face emerged from a crowd at the impromptu bar on the kitchen island. 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.
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