Mothers of Men by William Henry Warner — Read

In her room that night, after he had left, Marie slipped off the white frock, shook out the folds almost tenderly and hung it carefully away. She stood for a moment in deep thought, then she went to the dressing-table and picking up the hand-mirror, began examining her delicate profile, the way her hair grew about the nape of her white neck. The blue ribbons in her dainty camisole outlined her slim shoulders and matched the blueness of her eyes. It was a very lovely face that looked back at her from the mirror. Marie had never thought of her personal appearance as a vital asset before; now, however, with the memory of a flashing smile, a frank boyish face before her, she examined herself closely. Was she really attractive, she wondered? She lacked the egotism, the self-knowledge which is able to catalogue its own charms. The desire to be appreciated, however, was strong in her. Her sensitive nature was instinctively conscious of approval or disapproval.

She rested her elbows on the dressing-table and propped her chin in her cupped hands. Could she dare hope for happiness such as came into the lives of other girls?