IMAGE
Every morning she awakes before light and dresses in saclike garments which prevent her frame from being viewed in clear sight. Many of her gowns likened to a tent. She polishes the looking glass each weekend, the reflection never seen. What does she see at the end of her hand? Only the spots that she scrubs clean. Never flashy, scarcely managing neat, suspect of even a single, warm word, her tendency is to retreat from the intent of familiar regard. No rouge or powder to veil her face, no... Sign in to see full entry.