She did not dance the first dance with her husband that night, nor did she enjoy seeing the colorful fireworks bursting in the sky, the charades, the games. She retired early to her new chambers, and closed the door. She lit a candle, for the large room which was now hers was often dim, even in late afternoon. She placed the candle on the bureau and looked at herself in the mirror. She undressed, pulling the combs from her hair, letting the glittering mass fall free about her shoulders. She put her hands on her waist, turning her slender body, silently measuring herself against Lavinia. She slipped a nightdress over her head, wiggled her hands through the voluminous sleeves. Beneath it she dropped her stays and chemise and stepped out of them. Undoing the pins from her hair, she wrapped the gleaming rope of it around one arm, fastening it in a roll on her neck. “Too thin,” she said to her image. She practically threw herself on the bed and fell asleep for awhile.
