feel secretly uncomfortable, and she did so now. She did not speak with rudeness so much as with a cold steadiness with which Miss Minchin felt it difficult to cope—perhaps because she knew she was doing a heartless and inhuman thing.
“You will have no time for dolls in future,” she said. “You will have to work and improve yourself and make yourself useful.”
Sara kept her big, strange eyes fixed on her, and said not a word.
“Everything will be very different now,” Miss Minchin went on. “I suppose
be.
“Is that—” she ventured, looking longingly at the rose-colored frock. And she asked it almost in a whisper. “Is that there your best?”
“It is one of my dancing-frocks,” answered Sara. “I like it, don’t you?”
For a few seconds Becky was almost speechless with admiration. Then she said in an awed