He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Are these folks your current foster parents?” “Yes. But at this, he halted, turning his frowning gaze back on her. 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. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. He liked to draw her in, and she did her best to talk. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment.
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