"This is the way I ought to look all
the time," thought she. "And this is the way I _will_ look!"
Only better--much better. Already her true eye was seeing the
defects, the chances for improvement--how the hat could be
re-bent and re-trimmed to adapt it to her features, how the
dress could be altered to make it more tasteful, more effective
in subtly attracting attention to her figure.
"How much do you suppose the dress cost, Miss Hinkle?" asked
Ellen--the question Mrs. Tucker had been dying to put but had
refrained from putting lest it should sound unrefined.
"It costs ninety wholesale," said Miss Hinkle. "That'd mean a
hundred and twenty-five--a hundred and fifty, maybe if you was
to try to buy it in a department store. And the hat--well,
Lichtenstein'd ask fifty or sixty for it and never turn a hair."
"Gosh--ee?" exclaimed Ellen. "Did you ever hear the like?"
"I'm not surprised," said Mrs. Tucker, who in fact was
flabbergasted. "Well--it's worth the money to them that can
afford to buy it. The good Lord put everything on earth to be
used, I reckon. And Miss Sackville is the build for things
like that. Now it'd be foolish on me, with a stomach and
sitter that won't let no skirt hang fit to look at."
The bell rang. The excitement died from Susan's face, leaving
it pale and cold. A wave of nausea swept through her. Ellen
peeped out, Mrs.
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