Maggie's heart beat as she went up to her room. When at
last she was wearing the dress, standing before her mirror, her
cheeks were red and her hands shook a little.
The dress was very fine--simple of course and quite plain, but
elegant as no dress of Maggie's had ever been elegant. There surely
could not anywhere be a more perfect black dress, and yet, as Maggie
gazed, she was aware that there was something not quite right. She
was always straightforward with herself; yes, the thing that was not
quite right was her own stupid shape. Her figure was too square, her
back was too short, her hands too large. She had a moment of acute
disgust with herself so that she could have torn the dress from her
and rushed into her old obscure and dingy black again. Of what use
to dress her up? She would always look wrong, always be awkward and
ungainly . . . tears of disappointment gathered slowly in her eyes.
Then her pride reasserted itself; she raised her head proudly and
laughed at her anxious gaze. There was still her new hat. She took
it from the bed and put it on, sticking big pins into it, moving
back from the mirror, then forward again, turning her back, standing
on her toes, suddenly bowing to herself and waving her hand.
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