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To be sure, her feet were bare, and there were bells on her left ankle. - (Prize of Gor, Chapter 24, Sentence #415)

I am that sort of woman, she who is, and knows herself to be, a man's slave, only that! Please do not beat me! Then she rose to her feet and put her veil about her head, wrapping it closely about her head and shoulders, concealing even her face. It was much as though she might be a free woman, though surely the bells on her ankle and her silks belied that possibility. She then walked about the dancing area, erect, proudly, gracefully, but keeping herself concealed. To be sure, her feet were bare, and there were bells on her left ankle. This created, to the Gorean thinking, a paradox. She was sure she was beautiful, and that the men, who had glimpsed her for an instant when she entered upon the sand, had seen that, but only for a tantalizing moment. Her beauty, she hoped, might save her, compensating to a significant extent for her ignorance of slave dance. - (Prize of Gor)