She was not even acquainted with herself.

Why! She was naive enough to be puzzled because she felt older than her mother and younger than her beautiful girlish complexion, simultaneously! She opened the central mirrored door of the once formidable wardrobe, and as she did so the image of the bed and of half the room shot across the swinging glass, taking the place of her own reflection.

And instantly, when she inserted herself between the exposed face of the wardrobe and its door, she was precipitated into the most secret intimacy of her mother's existence.

There was the familiar odour of old kid gloves....

She was more intimate with her mother now than she could ever be in talking to her.