"You're just swell! An' them stockin's is peaches." Saxon smiled with appreciation, pointed out her foot, velvet-slippered with high Cuban heels, and slightly lifted the tight black skirt, exposing a trim ankle and delicate swell of calf, the white flesh gleaming through the thinnest and flimsiest of fifty-cent black silk stockings.

She was slender, not tall, yet the due round lines of womanhood were hers.

On her white shirtwaist was a pleated jabot of cheap lace, caught with a large novelty pin of imitation coral.

Over the shirtwaist was a natty jacket, elbow-sleeved, and to the elbows she wore gloves of imitation suede.

The one essentially natural touch about her appearance was the few curls, strangers to curling-irons, that escaped from under the little naughty hat of black velvet pulled low over the eyes.
Mary's dark eyes flashed with joy at the sight, and with a swift little run she caught the other girl in her arms and kissed her in a breast-crushing embrace.