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. Satisfied in this respect, he flung himself into a chair, for his iron frame seldom required the indulgence of a bed, and sought an hour's repose before he began the villanies of another day. He continued tenderly, almost affectionately. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley.
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