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. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. But in a moment she believed she understood. The mighty concourse became for a moment still. CHAPTER XIV. Years ago, when you were a girl and in the bloom of your beauty, I loved you.
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