She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. She found him reclined, watching television in a small guest room hidden in a back wing of the massive house. Girls erupted in waves of whispering as soon as she passed them by. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. You see—I didn’t understand. Perhaps marriage hurt.
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