You can see the seam if you look closely, look at the wrong side, pull two pieces of fabric at the right spot, at the armseye or along the godets of a six-gore skirt: the running stitch skipping the length, hidden and not usually thought of except by the maker, the tailor—or the mistress of the tailor, who has learned he loves her best not undressed but basted in muslin like the mannequin in the haberdashery, everything pinned, neat as his trimmed beard and immaculate fingernails.