Vanity Fair- Becky/Amelia. The power of orange knickers.
Amelia used to barely listen when Becky spoke, letting her chatter roll over her like soft summer air, and infinitely pleasant. There were compliments there that made her blush, and jokes that made her blush harder even as she laughed, but she didn't use to really listen, and she never foresaw what would come, never really heard when Becky told her what would happen. Nobody liked Becky at the school, but they had their secrets, Amelia and Becky, and such delightful ones too, never ever to be told. Her mouth was sealed, their secrets lay buried in her heart, a delight in her flesh that she could not decide whether to bless or condemn. Yet years passed and here was Becky again and her words and her secret smile were both like knives in her heart and she could not believe anyone could do or say such things, that her George, no, that her Becky would, it wasn't done, it wasn't fair. Above all, there was the terror that the secrets now lay on the pillow of Becky's husband, picked apart and ridiculed, and now Becky's foot was on the doorstep of her husband's bedroom and the secrets lay about her thighs, under her skirts, his to touch if only he reached out, left there years ago by Amelia's own lips.
Around her silk twirled and flowers struggled against death on ladies' wrists.