She was wearing her Sunday best, as if that were important; an odd dress of pale peach, marked with details in vivid green, a belt like vines and tight tight cuffs at the wrists, her hair done up in lovely if elaborate braids. She even found a hat to match, a small pillbox that perches up among the braids like a bird in a nest.
Well, she tried.
There's a canvas backpack over one shoulder, spoiling the effect a bit as well, and her shoes while neat are showing signs of wear from all the walking. She rings the bell and waits patiently, rehearsing a sentence in awkward French that she'd learned by the syllable.