me,” she said; “but I liked it. He thought I was queer, but he liked me to make up things. I—I can’t help making up things. If I didn’t, I don’t believe I could live.” She paused and glanced around the attic. “I’m sure I couldn’t live here,” she added in a low voice.
Ermengarde was interested, as she always was. “When you talk about things,” she said, “they seem as if they grew real. You talk about Melchisedec as if he was a person.”
“He IS a person,” said Sara. “He gets hungry and frightened,
somehow that she always hated her—and, of course, it was disrespectful to hate grown-up people.
“When her dear papa, Captain Crewe, brought her from India and gave her into my care,” the speech proceeded, “he said to me, in a jesting way, `I am afraid she will be very rich, Miss Minchin.’ My reply