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 was true. "We'll give them the slip yet, and hang that butcherly thief-taker upon his own gibbet. “Listen,” she said. "Can't!" repeated his mother. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford.
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