He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. 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. She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering.
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