‘And just who is Leonardo?’ ‘How in God’s name should I know?’ demanded Roding irascibly. 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. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over.
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