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"Fraidy, scared of a little blood." Then with not a great deal of relevance, "I could have the yellowest hair in the world if I wanted to." "How?" "Oh, by just wanting to." "Nit." "Could." "Your mamma's calling you." "Lil-ly, come practice." "I'm coming." To Harry, "I can do something you can't do." "What?" "Hop up six stairs on one foot." "Dare you."
Something latent, something congenital, even malignant, however, had developed in Mrs. Becker. She took a fierce kind of joy, not untinged with the mongrel emotion of self-pity, in scrubbing, on hands and knees, the entire flight of back stairs at the black six-o'clock hour of wintry mornings, her voice tickling up like a feather duster to Lilly's reluctantly awakening senses. "Lil-ly! Get up!
"Lil-ly, not so fast. Play 'Selections from Faust' now, slowly, and count, the way Miss Lee said you should." Another favorite was the just published "Narcissus" of Nevin. Its cross-hand movement was a phillipic to her ever-ready-to-ferment fancy.
Ankle cupped in her hand, brown braids bobbing, she would thus essay two, three, even four steps of staggering ascent, collapsing then against the banister. "Ouch!" "Told you so." "Well, I nearly did." "Oh, you nearly do everything." "I can't help it if my foot isn't strong enough to hold me." "Lil-ly, don't let me have to call you again." "I'm coming, mamma."
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