From "The Ghost of Christmas Crazy"

Mr. Twigg sighed. “Worse and worse. All right call me names and you have to suffer for it. Come on.”

He took off at a rapid walk. He still had Gwen’s hand and she was attached to it, so she was dragged along willy-nilly. They wove in and out of the crowd, shot around two corners, narrowly missed bowling over a whole chorus of chirping street urchins and finally came to a halt in front of a booth lined with clothes racks.

Minding the booth was a rotund young man in a tweed waistcoat and checked woolen trousers. “Mr. Cunningham!” roared Mr. Twigg. The hat was flourished.

“Mr. Twigg!” Mr. Cunningham bowed. “I have brought you a customer!”

“So I see. Charmed!” Mr. Cunningham bowed again, this time more deeply and Gwen, fascinated, wondered if the buttons on his waistcoat would stand the strain. She glanced past him and a large sign hung on the wall caught her eye:

Victorian Costumes For Rent! For Ladies and Gentlemen of Taste and Refinement!

“Now—wait just a minute—“she began, but it was too late. Mr. Twigg conjured a ten dollar bill. Mr. Cunningham accepted it. Mr. Twigg, muttering to himself, dived into the middle of a bewildering welter of silk, lace, feathers and sequins, commenting as he searched. “Too plain! Wrong color! Too many ruffles! Fine for a blonde, terrible for a brunette!”

“Yes,” said Mr. Cunningham. “Precisely. I agree. You’re absolutely right.”

Mr. Twigg broke surface triumphant, with a froth of ivory satin and lace across his arm. “Ah!”

“Perfect,” said Mr. Cunningham.

“You’re got to be kidding,” said Gwen.

It wasn’t that the dress wasn’t beautiful. It was so gorgeous it made her shiver. But she’d look ridiculous in it. Full skirt, nipped-in waist, off-the-shoulder sleeves and—well, you couldn’t call it a neckline. There wasn’t enough of it to call it a neckline.

She looked up to see the hopeful stares of two sets of masculine eyes. How could she, tactfully, put this? “I can’t wear that. I’ll—I’ll—“

“Overflow?” enquired Mr. Twigg. “What a delicious thought” He sighed. Mr.Cunningham smiled.

Gwen scowled at them, eyed the dress and said, “No.”

The gentlemen looked at each other. Mr. Twigg’s mouth set in a firm line. “Go behind the screen and try it on. If you don’t like it, take it off. No one has to see.”

He handed her the dress. Mr. Cunningham beamed. Gwen sighed. It wouldn’t hurt to just try it on…

The silk slid over her skin cool as water and when she turned and looked in the mirror…

My God, Gwen thought, staring at herself in awe. Is that me?

Mr. Twigg had been right. The girl in the mirror definitely had a figure, a figure accented by the soft drape of the skirt, the tight waist, the neckline that was—just—on the right side of decent. On a sudden impulse, Gwen dug some clips out of her purse and brushed her hair back and up. This time, when she looked in the mirror, the young lady staring back could have been a Victorian belle. Gwen opened the delicate ivory fan that went with the dress and tried a flirtatious look then laughed with delight at the result. An imitation belle, just like everything else here, but nonetheless pretty—really pretty—like the neon angels and the little robot deer—

She winked at her reflection, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and stepped out from behind the screen.

“Woof!” said Mr. Cunningham.

“Precisely,” said Mr. Twigg.......