Just then the door opened, and a small, dark-haired woman with a broad, strong-featured face walked into the room. At thirty-six, Mademoiselle had the short, wiry build of a twelve-year-old boy, and she was dressed simply in a gray jersey suit with a white blouse. The brown curls bobbing around her ears glistened with health; her dark gypsy eyes blazed under thick black brows. She barely glanced at my face, but she took an immediate interest in my dress—a black, low-waisted wool with a white organdy collar and cuffs—noting the perfect fit, the fine cut of the bodice, the graceful skirt that traced the hips. "Raise your arms, girl!" she commanded. I obeyed. "Ah, sleeves the fit properly." She clapped her hands like a delighted child. "Who made it?"
"I did," I said. Mademoiselle hired me on the spot.