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In plain English, I want to tell Miss Verinder, without a word of warning, of Rosanna's death on the chance that her own better feelings will hurry her into making a clean breast of it. Does your ladyship accept that alternative?" My mistress astonished me beyond all power of expression. She answered him on the instant: "Yes; I do." "The pony-chaise is ready," said the Sergeant.
It seems a letter that I wrote to Mrs. Horton put the seal on it and I want to know where we all stand." "Whatever we do there is going to be an awful fuss," said Minnie, sighing. She sat on the edge of the chair facing Mrs. Hargrave and told that lady more of Rosanna's lonely, friendless little life than Mrs. Hargrave had ever guessed.
Why, the fun they get out of it is worth everything. And in summer they camp and put up jams and things, at least the group this youngster belonged to did, and she is certainly great. Such a polite little thing." "Rosanna can invite her up here to see her," said Mrs. Horton. "I guess you would think she was not in Rosanna's class," he said, staring at his mother. "Class?" said Mrs. Horton.
Rosanna sat straight up in bed and stared with round eyes. Miss Marjorie Hooker clicked across the big room and almost shyly took Rosanna's hand. "How do you do?" she said in a silvery, small voice that fitted her tiny self to perfection. "It is so good of you to see me!" "W-w-won't you sit down?" asked Rosanna feebly. Miss Hooker looked at Uncle Robert.
They got out of their car, and staggered, rather than walked, over to Mrs. Culver, who was laughing at them. Rosanna's long curls were blown every which way around her small, dark face, and Helen's bobbed hair was sticking straight up. "There is a Trip to the Moon right over here," said Mr. Culver. "Don't you want to go?"
If it was possible for Penelope to be right, the explanation of Rosanna's strange language and behaviour might have been all in this that she didn't care what she said, so long as she could surprise Mr. Franklin into speaking to her. Granting that to be the right reading of the riddle, it accounted, perhaps, for her flighty, self-conceited manner when she passed me in the hall.
"Have you been tender with her, mother?" "I have done my duty by the child," answered Mrs. Horton. She went down the corridor to Rosanna's room, her head held high. The cold, pallid light of the hour just before day filled the house. Mrs. Horton opened Rosanna's door and went in. She looked long at the little bed as though she could not believe her eyes.
She couldn't wash out the stain; and she couldn't safely destroy the night-gown without first providing another like it, to make the inventory of her linen complete." "What proves that it was Rosanna's nightgown?" I objected. "The material she bought for making the substitute dress," answered the Sergeant.
Little Rosanna Horton was a very poor little girl. When I tell you more about her, you will think that was a very odd thing to say. She lived in one of the most beautiful homes in Louisville, a city full of beautiful homes. And Rosanna's was one of the loveliest. It was a great, rambling house of red brick with wide porches in the front and on either side.
This was something that would have to be told over and over a dozen or twenty times. She stood with Luella and Myron, the baby looped over her arm, and watched the car disappear with a feeling of happiness and gratitude that filled her thin little frame to overflowing. When the car reached the great white steps of Rosanna's house, the two little girls said good-night.
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