“I’ve never seen you out of uniform,” he said as he took her hand. Clattering in her blood was the anxiety that drew her smile taut. “I thought I’d give you a surprise.” “I hope it won’t be the last surprise you’ll give me tonight.” He put her arm in his and drew her toward the refreshments. Sula had worn a uniform all those years because she hadn’t been able to afford to do otherwise. To compete with the women of the Peer class, each raised from the cradle in obedience to laws of beauty, of fashion, and of courtesy, with wardrobes that changed every season to conform with rules that were understood but were never written down…her allowance would never have permitted it, and in any case the idea was too daunting. The danger of making a mistake was always present, and fortunately a uniform was always correct attire for Fleet personnel. Once she’d been at the center of a kind of whirlwind of modish style. She’d had a lover—a linkboy, the sort of person described in melodramas as a “crime lord,”
