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. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. You'll find me at supper. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally.
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