Woman is the slave of beauty.
I applied my new corset to my body. I pulled it so hard.
It pained me.
28th—My heart was a lark.
I sang, but not in a trembling voice like a lark, some slices of school song.
I skipped around my garden.
Because it occurred to me finally that I’ll appear beautiful in my new costume.
I smiled happily to the sunlight whose autumnal yellow flakes—how yellow they were!—fell upon my arm stretched to pluck a chrysanthemum.
I admit that my arm is brown.
But it’s shapely.