Karl stared stupefied at the figure in the mirror. What stunned him was the sight of his thoroughly boyish head perched incongruously atop the lavishly decorated and bustled evening gown. He had seemed to lose track of Karl altogether in the ghastly process of being dressed in layers of lingerie and the gown, every shred of his masculinity buried beneath it all, and now he saw Karl's head atop it all. It gave him an eerie feeling of being between worlds, in both gender and historical time. His world was completely out of kilter.
Mother had left. Karl didn't know why.
Mrs. Parsons had immediately begun coaching Karl in the complex business of trying to move gracefully in the twenty pounds of satin and taffeta that encumbered him. His breathing was constricted, he was unable to bend above his hips. The bustle ties in front and the camisole prevented walking in anything but tiny, mincing steps. The pile of lace and taffeta atop his bustle swayed with every movement. He felt like an effeminate baggage train.