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. ‘Cover her, men. Mr. "Done!" cried Shotbolt. My whole life shall be devoted to you, beloved girl. But the cases were not identical. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. Anna saw it, and for the first time found herself trembling.
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