But Frieda only smiled and shook her head; and as her mouth was full of pins, it was physically impossible for Moses to argue.

She remained all evening in a white disorder of tucked breadths, curled ruffles, dismembered sleeves, and swirls of fresh lace; her needle glancing in the lamplight, and poor Moses picking up her spools.
Her trousseau, was it not?
No, not her trousseau.

It was my graduation dress on which she was so intent.

And when it was finished, and was pronounced a most beautiful dress, and she ought to have been satisfied, Frieda went to the shops once more and bought the sash with the silk fringes.
The improvidence of the poor is a most distressing spectacle to all right-minded students of sociology.

But please spare me your homily this time.