Lilac! Why, I declare if it isn't mauve-pink." "Mauve-pink!" She had given voice to the fear that lay hidden in Miss Quincey's heart.

A sensitive culprit caught in humiliating guilt could not look more cowed with self-consciousness than Miss Quincey at that word.

Criminal and crime, Miss Quincey and her blouse, seemed linked in an awful bond of mutual abhorrence.

The blouse shivered as Miss Quincey trembled in nervous agitation; as she went red and yellow by turns it paled and flushed its painful pink.

They were blushing for each other.
For it _was_ mauve-pink; she could see that well enough now.
"Turn round!" Miss Quincey turned round.
"Much too young for you! Why, bless me, if it doesn't throw up every bit of yellow in your face! If you don't believe me, look in the glass." Miss Quincey looked in the glass.
It _did_ throw up the yellow tints.