While this was passing, Jonathan had ridden back to Marvel to tell him that all was ready, and to give him his last instructions. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. 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. That was an admission all right.
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