Mr. Lucy complied, slipping the tight jeans over her white underwear. Perhaps she would have to charge this man and appear in a police-court next day. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. 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. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative.
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