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It was one of Kitty's best days. Her dress was not uncomfortable

anywhere; her lace berthe did not droop anywhere; her rosettes

were not crushed nor torn off; her pink slippers with high,

hollowed-out heels did not pinch, but gladdened her feet; and the

thick rolls of fair chignon kept up on her head as if they were

her own hair. All the three buttons buttoned up without tearing

on the long glove that covered her hand without concealing its

lines. The black velvet of her locket nestled with special

softness round her neck. That velvet was delicious; at home,

looking at her neck in the looking-glass, Kitty had felt that

that velvet was speaking. About all the rest there might be a

doubt, but the velvet was delicious. Kitty smiled here too, at

the ball, when she glanced at it in the glass. Her bare shoulders

and arms gave Kitty a sense of chill marble, a feeling she

particularly liked.