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. Lucy stared like an automaton at Michelle’s unconscious 262 body, revolted at her own actions to the point of shock. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin.
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