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A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. 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. His hands were exploring her once again in the car. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles.
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