I wanted several rigorously arranged arguments wrapped in startled homeric albatrosses, but what was actually delivered were the disheveled pockets of antique dresses, many containing otherwise inconceivable objects of clearly personal or intimate nature. There was little I could do about it. The transaction was irreversible. I wondered what those women, long ago, would think or feel or imagine upon discovering that the pockets in which they had hidden intimate things were, inconceivably, gone. And the things, too. All of them. Every little one.