It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre. 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. Ann Veronica loved beautiful things, and the beauty of undraped loveliness not least among them; but these were pictures that did but insist coarsely upon the roundness of women’s bodies. ‘But I don’t trust you an inch. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her.
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