and her eyes had dark rings around them. Her mouth was set as if she did not wish it to reveal what she had suffered and was suffering. She did not look in the least like the rose-colored butterfly child who had flown about from one of her treasures to the other in the decorated schoolroom. She looked instead a strange, desolate, almost grotesque little figure.
She had put on, without Mariette’s help, the cast-aside black-velvet frock. It was too short and tight, and her slender legs looked long
ran to the door, opened it, and looked out and listened.
“No one is anywhere about,” she explained. “If your bedrooms are finished, perhaps you might stay a tiny while. I thought— perhaps—you might like a piece of cake.”
The next ten minutes seemed to Becky like a sort of delirium. Sara opened a cupboard,