“I shouldn’t have waited,” she said. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. ” The girl shook her head. 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. I must tell somebody—and you would understand. “Let me show you something. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply. Very well, I give up.
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