…."What, are those tears I see?"
"I'm sorry, Lucy. It's….it's just—that I quail it so!" The dressmaker espoused a brisk tone…..
"Oh, Lordy, kid—you do look fine!"
Only two people were present in Madame Lucine's exclusive establishment—one adoring the other. "Fine feathers make fine birds," Thomasina replied—trying to beam back at the brown face reflected beside hers in the mirror.
Her own image—of an auburn-haired missy in levitating white tulle—twinkled and beclouded against the rose silk wallpaper. At a rate of knots, she rolled and posed, dissimulating to fancy the elegant lines of her gown in the triple mirror—wanting to conceal her perturbation from the modiste's desirous, black eyes; but that was something Thomasina had never been able to do.
Lucy—known to San Francisco society as Madame Lucine—saw through the subterfuge. "What, are those tears I see?"
"I'm sorry, Lucy. It's….it's just—that I quail it so!" The dressmaker espoused a brisk tone. "Desiccate your eyes, missy, before you spot your dress. I won't have you disfiguring my finest gown."
The mock-stern tone evoked a shaky grin and subdued echoes of a merry childhood in distant New Orleans. How many times—Thomasina wondered—had Lucy's brown-sugar voice rebuked her over the years?
Hold still, missy—you are writhing like a bait on a line! If you don't stop wriggling about, kid—you are likely to get a pin poked into your ribs. I proclaim, missy, you can smudge a tidy dress just by walking on by it—and Lordy, kid, how did you rip your petticoats like that! Sneaking into the garden at that fancy girl's school again? Why you need to be a-stealing oranges when you've got all you want at home—is more than a body can figure…..