rather hot-tempered.
“I knew she was listening,” she said. “Why shouldn’t she?”
Lavinia tossed her head with great elegance.
“Well,” she remarked, “I do not know whether your mamma would like you to tell stories to servant girls, but I know MY mamma wouldn’t like ME to do it.”
“My mamma!” said Sara, looking odd. “I don’t believe she would mind in the least. She knows that stories belong to everybody.”
“I thought,” retorted Lavinia, in severe recollection, “that your mamma was dead. How can
got back to her seat before we could see her!” Sara explained. “Of course they always do. They are as quick as lightning.”
Ermengarde looked from her to the doll and back again.
“Can she—walk?” she asked breathlessly.
“Yes,” answered Sara. “At least I believe she can. At least I PRETEND I believe