Anna’s face however was wholly impassive. 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. Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. He was way out of her league and it was downright odd that he had obliged himself to talk to her, let alone walk her home.
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