midnight
There was something about Alma of an old glove just about ready to breathe out and flatten from the print of a recent hand . Fifteen years of debit and credit and days which swung with pendulum fidelity within the arc of routine had creased and dried her of sap . The whiteness of Lilly and the swift , shining , backward rush of her hair were a source of wistful and vicarious delight to her . `` Whoever named you Lilly was right , '' she said upon one of these midnight confabs so immemoriably dear to women , when hairpins can be removed and the dig of skirt bands unhooked . `` You 're so snowy , and soft , too ; you feel like a kitten 's ear . And that shining head of yours ! '' `` But all my life I 've wanted to be blond .