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feared my father more. Her suggestion, instead of pleasing me, sent a shiver of fear passing through me.

"Dad says..

"

"I know what he says. And how he bullied you .

"He didn't," I protested.

"Didn't he? That's what I'd call it."

"Well he didn't." I assured her.

"/

"Okay, okay, but he didn't say you have to look like a rag bag. If we're going to wear dresses, at least they can look like dresses."

She led me to her bedroom.

"Here," she said, producing clothes like a dog digging a hold, "change into these."

She tossed out a skirt, a blouse, a slip, and a pair of plain white panties. From her closet, she brought a pair of sandals. She started to help me off with my rags.

"You go out. I can do it," I requested.

She went, and I changed into the clothes she had given me.

Actually it was fun to be putting on fresh new clothes that fit. Part of what I disliked to intensely about the others was their ugly, ill- fitting shabbiness. Even a girl would have been ashamed to wear them. The skirt she gave me was a heavy red cotton one with Indian designs embroidered around the hem. The blouse was rather like it, but white. I still felt foolish, of course, but also quite relieved to be in fresh neat clothes again - even girl's clothes.

The fact that they were Aunt Helen's made a difference too. She didn't show my mother's humiliating pity or my sister's nasty teasing. Kind of a pleasant joke, she seemed to think it.

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