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The manager twisted his moustache. 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. His name is John. I came to beg you instead to do me the honour of becoming my wife. ’ ‘Pottiswick, you mean, miss?’ ‘Yes, yes.
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