Apron, petticoats. She stood and struggled, she tugged and hissed at her confining dress, remembering those Pawnee women, their unbound breasts beneath their tunics. In a tiny pop of eyelets, she snaked free. Bodice and tight sleeves, this hateful husk.
This book is not easy reading, dear blog readers, but self will keep at it, chiefly because occasionally one’s patience is rewarded with passages like the above. Stay tuned.