Her stifled misery had betrayed her. ” She whispered. 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. ‘This, as you see, is an identity for your cousin, André Valade. ” She shook her head, snapping out of her reverie.
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