Inside the little white cottage, however, in Miss Martin's sitting-
room--so queer and fascinating with its "forms," its samples and
"trimmings" pinned to the curtains, its alluring display of fashion
magazines and "charts," and its eternal litter of varicoloured
scraps over the floor--Missy's momentary dejection could but vanish.
Finally, when in Miss Martin's artfully tilted cheval glass, she
surveyed the pink vision which was herself, gone, for the time, was
everything of sadness in the world. She turned her head this way and
that, craning to get the effect from every angle-the bouffance of
the skirt, the rosebuds wreathing the sides, the butterfly sash in
the back. Adjured by Miss Martin to stand still, she stood vibrantly
poised like a lily-stem waiting the breath of the wind; bade to
"lift up your arms," she obeyed and visioned winged fairies alert
for flight. Even when Miss Martin, carried away by her zeal in
fitting, stuck a pin through the pink tissue clear into the warmer,
softer pink beneath, Missy scarcely felt the prick.
But, at the midday dinner-table, that sympathetic uneasiness
returned.
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