I fell in alighting
from the motor-car, collecting a bigger crowd by sprawling than any of
us had collected by our uniform. Later, again in a skirt, I jumped on a
military motor-car, and couldn't climb the side. I had to pull my skirt
up, and climb over as a man climbs. If women are doing the work of a
man, they must have the dress of a man.
That way of dressing and of living released me from the sense of
possession, once and for all. When I first went to Belgium with a pair
of fleece-lined gloves, I was sure, if I ever lost that pair, that they
were irreplaceable. I lost them. I lost article after article, and was
freed from the clinging. I lost a pin for the bodice. I left my laundry
with a washerwoman. Her village was bombarded, and we had to move on. I
lost my kit. A woman has a tie-in with those material things, and the
new life brought freedom from that.
I put on a skirt to return to London for a rest. I found there people
dressed modishly, and it looked uncomfortable. Styles had been changing:
women were in funny shoes and hats. I went wondering that they could
dress like that.
And then an overpowering desire for pretty things came on me--for a
piece of old lace, a pink ribbon. After sleeping by night in the clothes
worn through the day, wearing the same two shirts for four months, no
pajamas, no sheets, with spots of grease and blood on all the costume, I
had a longing for frivolous things, such as a pink tea gown.
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