"Right," said ’Possum cheerfully.  Even of dungaree, a new dress was a pleasant, almost exciting experience: albeit dungaree when new is more like petrified wood-pulp than anything else, and only ceases to scratch the wearer severely after many washings.  She wondered, would she depart from her usual custom of buying a man’s jumper for the blouse, and, instead, try to make it a little like some of Mrs. Macleod’s working dresses Then, with a shrug, she gave up the idea.  She knew she could not fashion the harsh, unyielding material into anything pretty—even if she could sew well enough.  "An’ you jolly well can’t," she told herself.  "You ain’t the kind to wear pretty things, anyhow."