Yarns Without Threads 

... Sandra tossed her head and dashed into the sunlight of the open space. Impulsively she began to turn cartwheels.

"Isn't this glorious now?" Marjorie called, running to keep up with her. "What do you suppose people do who have to live in clothes all the time?"

Sandra came to her feet, fastened a loosened band of black ribbon that had allowed thick masses of hair to tumble over her forehead.

"Search me!"

"Which pocket?" Marjorie returned, taking advantage of Sandra's unconscious pun.

Sandra smiled. "This one," she called, bringing her open palms against the skin of a rounded hip with a resounding thwack. Both girls giggled.

"I'm sure I don't know. What do they do?"

"Stay uncomfortable, starved for air and all moist all the time I guess. Ugh! It must be like hot winter living all the year round for them, don't you think ?"

"Maybe. But I don't know what that is even."

"Sandra! What do you do in cold weather?"

"Take my clothes off, of course."

"In the house?"

"Why, certainly. We live the free life all the year round, Mumsie and Daddy and me."

"You do? Where?"

"In New York!"

"Oh, come now. You're kidding."

"Don't look so surprised. We have a penthouse on top of a tall apartment building. The Rockwells, you know the people with the darling three-year-old boy - they have another. The Brushes, man and wife they are, have another. And Professor Achindoss has the fourth. We have the use of the roof all to ourselves. Often on a bright sunny afternoon we all get out in the sun."

"That's a little Wild Acres all to yourselves, isn't it?"

"Yes, in more ways than you think. We're continually in one another's apartments."

"Practicing?"

"Of course

Marjorie sighed. "I wish my mother would live so, too. A few months here isn't nearly enough."

"I can't understand anything else. I was brought up to enjoy sunlight and, air unhampered by clothes, long before people began writing silly books about what they call the 'nudist cult' and all that bosh. Mumsie and Daddy always have lived the free life any time they wanted to. And they taught me to do the same."

Holden told Biggers what he intended to do.

"A change will be the very thing for her," Biggers commented. "The more complete, the better. Although we'll miss Sandra. She is the vital life of this place. But I guess for her own good we can part with her for a while."

"For a while? She's seen the end of this crazy nonsense for good and all if I have my way! Running around naked, exposing herself to the opposite sex! Why, it's barbarous, sir! She's grown up without a shred of decency. I intend to see that she learns the social graces - that she conducts herself as a well-bred lady among ladies and gentlemen, sir! For a while - fiddlesticks! For good and all!"

Biggers smiled tolerantly. "And I thought you knew Sandra!" he said, shaking his head.

BRIGHT sunlight that brought to her bedside long rays widely aslant, wakened Sandra. She thought, half awake, that yesterday she must have been very tired to have slept so late. ...

... Sandra turned then to a tepid tub and a cold shower and a tingling rough-towelled rub as to the dearest friends she could, in need.

Nor did she stop there. Back in the spacious bedroom, still as innocent of clothing as when she had taken off all her things to retire last night, Sandra went through a series of setting-up exercises she had used on wind-blown fields for years. The arm and leg swings and torso bends and twists she called upon her firm young body to perform, sent the warm blood surging through her, bringing with it a revitalized sense of fortification for anything that lay ahead.

Somebody knocked at her door.

"Come in!" called Sandra, from beneath folded arms that had gone to one side as she bent at the waist.

The door opened, and Mrs. Wycoff's white bobbed head appeared, then her trim figure set off in purple lounging pajamas. One flash glance at Sandra, and she turned toward the door.

"My dear!" she said. "Excuse me!"

Sandra didn't understand. Hungry for companionship, she darted after Mrs. Wycoff, caught her and propelled her back from the door.

"Don't go, please! Good morning, Aunty Gertrude!" Sandra's head had found the assuaging shelter of Mrs. Wycoff's bosom. Purple-clad arms around her tanned shoulders helped.

For a long moment they stood so, until Mrs. Wycoff left off her gentle patting and held Sandra at arm's length, the better to search that strong unlined face. Reassured at finding no trace of the crushing grief she looked for, Mrs. Wycoff sat down, to reach into a pajama pocket for cigarette case and lighter.

A cigarette lighted, she openly and frankly surveyed Sandra from her flaming red hair to her tanned heels.

"My dear!" she whispered then. "You're gorgeous!"

Sandra instantly became conscious of herself. "I'm so sorry," she said, making for the chair where she had laid out her own familiar one-piece pajamas. "I'm so used to being natural, I didn't realize-"

"Don't apologize, child!" She sat thoughtfully smoking until Sandra had covered herself with the pajamas, slipped her feet into her sandals. Then:

"You know, Sandra, it's very odd. When I was a girl we were taught never to let anyone see us au naturel. Not even other little girls. Even at boarding school we dressed and undressed under our nighties. And yet a moment ago when I came in, it was I who felt that I must apologize. I felt positively unnatural with my clothes on! Strange . . . very odd.

"WHAT, no brassiere?"

"I never wear one. They bind me too much. I must feel unhampered by clothes, or I'm miserable."

"Anyone as full-breasted as you, Sandra, must wear something! We'll look at some featherweight silk net- What on earth is that?"

"My Mother Hubbard. I always -"

"Saint Peter, take me to glory! Those things were buried with the ark! I'll bet you wear linen panties, too, with ruffles!"

"I don't wear any. Step-ins -"

"Sandra!"

"Really; I can't be oppressed by sticky, clingy clothes, especially underthings."

"Silk shorts at least! And-oh, my Sainted Uncle! Cotton print! Whoever let you wear a dress like that?"

Sandra swallowed hard. "My mother always bought my clothes."

"In the big town here, all that is out. You'll soon see. And if you intend to be a wow you'll have to dress for it."

Sandra was fastening the snappers at the side of her black cotton dress with the white poppy design.

"I don't know that I care to be a wow anywhere. And the more I think of settling down in New York, the less I like some things about it."

Sandra felt miserable; but those words were the only sign she gave. Her clothes never had given her a thought, except as they became oppressive and she had to bear them until a propitious time to take them off. And subtly she resented any criticism of her mother's choice, no matter how well founded.