CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. No, none at all. " "Now for it," thought the woollen-draper, "I shall, at least, ascertain how the land lies. If I could but——” To escape from her thoughts she began to undress, humming a light tune to herself, though her eyes were hot with unshed tears, and the sobs kept rising in her throat. She looked at him curiously. 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.
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