She was beginning insensibly to rather hold herself aloof from the young people, and avoid joining in their games.

She felt older.

People had wondered if she would not wear the dress she had had made for her own wedding, but she did not.

She wore her old purple silk, which had been made over from one of her mother's, and a freshly-starched muslin collar.

The air was full of the rich sweetness of cake; there was a loud discord of laughter and high shrill voices, through which yet ran a subtle harmony of mirth.
Laughing faces nodded and uplifted like flowers in the merry romping throngs in the middle of the room, while the sober ones against the walls watched with grave, elderly, retrospective eyes.
As soon as she could, Sylvia Crane stole into her sister's bedroom, where the women's outside garments were heaped high on the bed, got her own, opened the side door softly, and went home.