you going to tell your father?” she asked, a slight doubt dawning in her mind.
“Oh, he needn’t know,” answered Ermengarde. “He’ll think I’ve read them.”
Sara put down her book and shook her head slowly. “That’s almost like telling lies,” she said. “And lies—well, you see, they are not only wicked—they’re VULGAR. Sometimes”— reflectively—“I’ve thought perhaps I might do something wicked— I might suddenly fly into a rage and kill Miss Minchin, you know, when she was ill-treating me—but I COULDN’T
in the square seemed a sound belonging to another existence.
“Oh, Sara!” cried Lottie, cuddling in her guarding arm. “I like this attic—I like it! It is nicer than downstairs!”
“Look at that sparrow,” whispered Sara. “I wish I had some crumbs to throw to him.”
“I have some!” came in a little shriek