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. Clearing the recess the instant after his companion, he flew to the door of the inner room, and, locking it, took out the key. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man.
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