"
"I wish," said Grace Cardew unhappily, "I wish you had never gone to
that camp."
All afternoon Lily and Grace shopped. Lily was fitted into shining
evening gowns, into bright little afternoon frocks, into Paris wraps.
The Cardew name was whispered through the shops, and great piles of
exotic things were brought in for Grace's critical eye. Lily's own
attitude was joyously carefree. Long lines of models walked by,
draped in furs, in satins and velvet and chiffon, tall girls, most
of them, with hair carefully dressed, faces delicately tinted and
that curious forward thrust at the waist and slight advancement of
one shoulder that gave them an air of languorous indifference.
"The only way I could get that twist," Lily confided to her mother,
"would be to stand that way and be done up in plaster of paris. It
is the most abandoned thing I ever saw."
Grace was shocked, and said so.
Sometimes, during the few hours since her arrival, Lily had wondered
if her year's experiences had coarsened her. There were so many
times when her mother raised her eyebrows. She knew that she had
changed, that the granddaughter of old Anthony Cardew who had come
back from the war was not the girl who had gone away.
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