He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. “There’s no one here except me. It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. ‘Do not mix yourself in mine, and perhaps you will not die. If you had not brought your companion here, it would not have happened. Do you see the time?” “I may come and see you?” Ennison asked, as his hand touched hers. Still, his robust frame enabled him to hold out. 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 a fetching gown that stretched tightly in a cream colored swath over her breasts and expanded to a full skirt with a petticoat. The small predator subconsciously acknowledged the larger one.
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