It isn't for their sakes, it's for your own. He glanced up at Roding and met his eyes. As you admitted to me—one has to square one’s self with the world. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. You see, it's like this. 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 struggled fiercely not to give way. “I must explain to her.
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