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. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. Ann Veronica decided that “hoydenish ragger” was the only phrase to express her. ‘Cousin? But I am a fool. But it would serve.
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