"He is dying?" whispered Ruth. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. It runs about gayly, it romps, it is bright and pretty, it has enormous quantities of soft hair and more power of expressing affection than its brothers. I warned her not to say a word, for it would mean the death of everyone in the Palazzo, including you. 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. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father. I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. The little spot of rouge was vivid enough now by reason of this new pallor, which seemed to draw the colour even from her lips.
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