I don’t defend it. Nice, of course. I only seen her when she come with that Sister Martha. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. There was absolute quiet. “When we go indoors I will show you the offers I have refused,” she answered. 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. The man’s passion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony.
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