Forty's silhouette, except for that cruel and irrefutable place where
the throat will wattle, was almost interchangeable with eighteen's.
Indeed, Bon Ton grandmothers with backs and French heels that were
twenty years younger than their throats and bunions, vied with twenty's
profile.
Whistler's kind of mother, full of sweet years that were richer because
she had dwelt in them, but whose eyelids were a little weary, had no
place there.
Mrs. Gronauer, who occupied an outside, southern-exposure suite of five
rooms and three baths, jazz-danced on the same cabaret floor with her
granddaughters.
Fads for the latest personal accoutrements gripped the Bon Ton in
seasonal epidemics.
The permanent wave swept it like a tidal one.
The beaded bag, cunningly contrived, needleful by needleful, from little
colored strands of glass caviar, glittered its hour.
_Filet_ lace came then, sheerly, whole yokes of it for _crepe de Chine_
nightgowns and dainty scalloped edges for camisoles.
Mrs. Samstag made six of the nightgowns that winter, three for herself
and three for her daughter. Peach-blowy pink ones with lace yokes that
were scarcely more to the skin than the print of a wave edge running up
sand, and then little frills of pink satin ribbon, caught up here and
there with the most delightful and unconvincing little blue satin
rosebuds.
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