“No I’m not, John. 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. You'd not know what to do without me, and shan't drive me off. “You will not even answer my letters. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time.
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