She was a
beautiful girl at twenty, I'll say that for her. None of these girls now
compares with her. But she was a little too sure of herself and took too
long deciding among the young men of this town, until all at once, she
found that nobody wanted her. She's been trying ever since to show she
doesn't care; and she pesters the life out of me twice a year trying to
fit her out with a hat. I won't let her go around the streets looking
like a giddy young fool, and that's what she's determined to do. So, if
you can suit her _and_ me, you will be doing pretty well."
The description made a picture for Rose. She saw the faded pathetic
prettiness of the woman who'd looked too long and had been trying to
pretend for the last fifteen years or so that she didn't care. And the
picture in her mind's eye was surmounted by a hat; a hat that conceded
some of the years Miss Gibbons had insisted on, and that her client was
unwilling to acknowledge, and yet retained a sort of jauntiness.
She didn't know whether she could execute the thing she saw or not, out
of the stock of materials at her disposal.
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