She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. 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. She moved forward almost indiscernibly, a millimeter. In your heart you know very well that this is absurd. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. “What the devil do you mean by coming for me like that?” Ennison exclaimed, glowering down upon him.
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