Mrs. Jerrold isn't quite satisfied, and would prefer the Costanzi, only
she doesn't believe in letting us girls stay at large hotels. She and
Edith are shocked at my kitchen tastes, so that I generally creep off
quietly and say nothing about it. It is strange for me to have to keep
anything secret, but I am learning how.
As for our clothes, O, mamma, Edith is ravishing in a deep blue-black
silk, with a curly, wavy sort of fringe on it, and odd loopings here
and there where you don't expect to find them. What can't a Parisian
dressmaker do? They have such a wonderful idea of appropriateness, it
seems to me. Now, at home you know we girls always wear the same sort
of thing, but Madame H---- says no, Edith, and I should dress very
differently; and now Edith's clothes all have a flow, and sweep, and
grace about them, and her silks rustle in a stately way as she walks,
while my dresses haven't any trimming to speak of, but are cut in a
clinging, square sort of way, with jackets, and here and there a buckle,
that makes me feel half the time as if I were playing soldier in a
lady-like fashion.
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