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’ Mrs Sindlesham laughed lightly, but her eyes quizzed him. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. ’ ‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted, but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice. 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.
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