CHAPTER XVIII. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. Her mouth was worthy of her face; with small, pearly-white teeth; lips glossy, rosy, and pouting; and the sweetest smile imaginable, playing constantly about them. This way, my dear—and— you’ll excuse my mentioning it, but a quiet blouse and a little chiffon, you know, will be quite sufficient.
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