And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility. “You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around. But, after all, it will be different. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. 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. She dreaded leaving him for the night, but separated herself finally.
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