Miss Quincey was tempted beyond all endurance; and she fell.

Once in possession of the blouse, its price, a guinea, paid over the counter, Miss Quincey was all discretion.

She carried her treasure home in a pasteboard box concealed under her cape; lest its shameless arrival in Hunter's van should excite scandal and remark.
That night, behind a locked door, Miss Quincey sat up wrestling and battling with her blouse.

To Miss Quincey in the watches of the night it seemed that a spirit of obstinate malevolence lurked in that deceitful garment.

Like all the things in Hunter's shop, it was designed for conventional well-rounded womanhood.