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. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. At one moment, it seemed as if the flying bark was about to put to shore. They were at the corner of Pall Mall now, and had come to a standstill.
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