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"Did you use a sewing machine?" I asked.She shook her head. "We haven't one, ma'am. I sewed it by hand." Truly? Come here, child, and let me take a closer look." Look as close as you like, ma'am." In a moment she stripped down toher corset cover and petticoat, and handed me her skirt and blouse toinspect.These pieces were not the work of a child. They appeared to have beencreated by a skilled modiste, perfectly scaled to Lisa's childishfigure. The work was impeccable. Tiny, barely visible, perfectly evenstitches. French seams. Invisible hems. Clever use of pleats, ruffles,scallops and shirring to decorate the skirt and blouse without usingcostly trims. I was deeply impressed by the girl's work. I had nodoubt she could mend my Chestnut Street gown."Very nice work," I told her, and handed her skirt and blouse back toher. She put them on again with no show of modesty. I wondered if shelived in domestic circumstances in which modesty was a luxury, not anecessity. A small, older house with. Glancing, looking away, steeling herself, glancing back. The leather ties that would bind her ankles. Looking away. Looking away. The smooth, dark wood over which they’d have her bend, the ties for her wrists on the opposite side. Looking away. Looking away.She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. It was cold. So cold, sitting here, naked, on this solitary plastic chair. A single bulb hung above her, the only frail source of light or warmth in this lonely place.She’d been caned on admission, as the magistrate had instructed to her shock and to cries of disbelief from her family and friends crowded into the tiny courtroom. Twenty strokes as she touched her toes in the prison’s reception room, between stripping from her own clothes and covering herself with the rough, ugly, government-issue uniform. Each stroke unbearable, for its pain and its shame, each marking her transition, her loss of freedom.But today was different. No cane here. No mere Admissions Clerk. Any moment.
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