Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. "Vell, vell," growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's remonstrances, "it shall be done. Afterwards we started for déjeuner in a motor. 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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