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In the body of the carriage a diminutive bonneted head was barely visible above an enormous circumference of hoops. Elim saw bobbing gray curls, peering anxious eyes, and a fluttering hand in a black silk-thread mit. "Gossard," a feminine voice cried shrilly to the driver, at the sight of Elim on the roadside, "here's a Yankee army; lick up those horses!"
"I thank you for your clemency," she said to Elim. She fumbled among her flounces and hoops and produced an object carefully wrapped and tied. "Here," she proclaimed; "I can still pay for a service. Gossard " the carriage moved forward, was lost in the dip in the road. Elim opened the package in his hand and regarded, with something like consternation, a bottle of champagne.
We were still doing our make-up as man conducted his double life with intent to deceive the general public. We still belonged at heart to the Puritan era, in spite of our wicked fox-trot. All may have been artificial below the neck, from our Gossard corsets with their phalanx of garters on to our hobble skirts. But above the neck, we pretended it was natural. The flapper has changed all that.
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