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. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. Their faces had bite marks that were hers. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. Of course, girls repeat phrases and opinions of which they cannot possibly understand the meaning.
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