She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly.

What was the matter with the dress?
She could not see.

For the past four weeks mirrors had been her delight, a new toy.

Here was one that subtly mocked her.
Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities.
Each human contact leaves some indelible mark.

The spinsters--who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever--had already left their imprint upon her imagination.