She uttered an exclamation of horror. "Good gracious, you wild and ruthless ruffian! A gown—this gown—years ago! My bonny boy, do you think I wear my gowns for years?"
"I wear my suits for years. Some I've had seven years. I've got a frock-coat I bought for my brother Jim's wedding, ten years ago, and it looks all right—a little small now, but otherwise 'most as good as new."
"What a lamb, what a babe, you are, Ruddy! Like none that ever lived. Why, no woman wears her gowns two seasons, and some of them rather hate wearing them two times."
"Then what do they do with them—after the two times?"
"Well, for a while, perhaps, they keep them to look at and gloat over, if they like them; then, perhaps, they give them away to their poor cousins or their particular friends—"
"Their particular friends—?"
"Why, every woman has some friends poorer than herself who love her very much, and she is good to them. Or there's the Mart—"
"Wait. What's 'the Mart'?"
"The place where ladies can get rid of fine clothes at a wicked discount."
"And what becomes of them then?"