He pulled her from him to kiss her on the mouth and paused, looking into her face. There’s a hansom coming round the corner. There’s always friction, conflict, unwilling concessions. 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. He stood before her. A thin line of red appeared in the white neck.
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