In 1 corner or another if 1searched folds of India fabrics, lengths from China, bands from Scotland, if 1persisted cell to cell 1 might find in ultimate reward the sewing fixture, restoration's witch, even more, the blessed saint of regeneration.
        Carrie sat sewing on a hidden stool triptyched into a corner by old coats, tights, and dresses whose mounding crushed skirts petaled her well-fleshed shoulders and framed her golden hair in setting conducive to calling forth its gold shining like a halo the backstage saintly seamstress.
        "As much a fixture as a cat," Madame dismissed her to the artist who had come, who had requested viewing cafe secrets oh, with such an eye, with such a voice, as could not be resisted though Madame assured herself it was the coins and bills the artist passed and she secreted in her breast most dear to her, Madame, encrusted by what nameless elements composed the streets, a lifetime of that she'd had and more, fortunes lost and won, Madame, she was wise to judge against the standard of bright coin but she let the artist linger and she let the artist enter where she would not have another less fair, less rare.
        There was an aire, there was an aura, that Madame could not sense but sensed she ought and might and could if she were but more and had been less of the street.

        She sewed what the dancing women flung at her oh not with rudeness, not uncaring any more than they were caring of each other and themselves they cared as much as any harried anxious, hungry hoofer worried and distracted might and 'twas certain, 'twas expected, they would miss her right away or at least the next they needed her if she were gone.
        The artist dipped his head for veils and netting and sheaves of kerchiefs plucked his broad-brimmed flat-crowned hat from his head on entering he caught it into his slender hand his eyes sparkling with unvoiced laughter, "You will teach me manners," he said.
        The women giggled, chuckled, laughed outrageously for what had they to lose but the sight of Madame like a hatchet or a steel band in their midst pruning, reconfiguring,
indiscriminate abruptly, exceptionless.
        "I require your aid, mademoiselle," the artist said in voice never before heard there.
        The silence came like bullheaded fighter brought to knees shuddering to a stop by 1 tender blow.

        The artist entered; jeweled, damascene was Carrie sewing with her head bent gleaming bright she looked up, then down so quickly blushing but none saw that so quick was she save the artist who had come for her, who did know her never having seen her but had come for her solely where sat ensconced unlikely in her throne of outcast wardrobe sewing loose buttons, the heel-caught rips, the impatient tears, the sighs of ancient cloth parting easily as spoiled fruit: Carrie.