She was like an angel with one wing. 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. I speak frankly, because you also know that no possible extremity would induce me to accept help from any living person. She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture. John stared palely.
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