Carrie sat upon a broken pillar base wearing deep purple a shawl about her shoulders. It had fallen from her hair, it seemed to me, for golden strands were yet caught in its pattern and locks restrained within it. She looked beyond the steps to lush green rolling away to distant grove and lowering sky. Her feet together were placed upon an elbow of fat brown vine.
        Rose lifted her chin and flaunted, taunted, with her broad-brimmed hat beneath which her eyes did flash quite boldly. What a hat it was, adorned with flowers and birds unto a rapturous tower, a brilliant pinnacle far above its satin brim and satin broad streamers rippled from it as Rose moved like accolade to her slender back, the falling folds and lifting tucks and puffs, the loops and laces, flounces and ribbanding, flute and ruche of her pink dress. How low the bodice swooped in ready deference, in high praise, to her full breasts pressed upward offering to all the world.
        White, her breast, save for the 1 black patch placed there beckoning, demanding, devoted lips. 1 could no more than glimpse allured like the whisp of an enviable dream the tips of her glass heels, the toes of her gilt satin shoes. Pink. Pink were her hidden toes like precious warm buttons of desire.
        Her dark hair was elaborately confined in gleaming arabesques and cleverly selected, 1 might even deem mapped, portions were allowed to fall upon her naked cream shoulders in scented ringlets lightly dancing. The lilting brush careless with such cream could drive 1mad to caress just once before expiring sweet cream soft skin with perishing lips and fingertips.