Violet stood beneath a dainty parasol stitched in silken embroidery a garden of Paradise. Her eyes were dark and deep, waiting. They were full and large, expecting.
        Impatient Elaine paced precisely as in courtly dance positioning each narrow foot accented by buckled gleaming black.
        They could hear Cleo's laugh long before she arrived.
        Elaine paced proudly her spine eloquent in its sinuousity. Exquisitely delicate features etched intaglio upon the bosom of the dripping trees and with vines setting her pale shoulders Elaine formed a stunning visual feast promising ineluctably and she knew it and enjoyed it while pacing irritably her white wig crowning her intent smooth it was, white, smooth, costly, coiffed tremendously and appropriately for day and time and intent and, too, for the sepia mole resting on her cheek.
        Jewels flashed from her and did no more than justice to the unmarred white column of her throat.
        Unlike the previous century's lust and contentment with ripe pearls these jewels, Elaine's, were fire and tales, illustrious endeavor, the risk and wealth, all of that coveted, the risk and wealth and wild heedless endeavor, the coup, of the East, from the East.
        The world had expanded.