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. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. The chance had gone. "My horses, Charcam," he said, as a servant appeared. I'm told he's so handsome. But I may yet live to thwart them.
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