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Sara felt rather hot-tempered. "I knew she was listening," she said. "Why shouldn't she?" Lavinia tossed her head with great elegance. "Well," she remarked, "I do not know whether your mamma would like you to tell stories to servant girls, but I know MY mamma wouldn't like ME to do it."
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"My mamma!" said Sara, looking odd. "I don't believe she would mind in the least. She knows that stories belong to everybody." "I thought," retorted Lavinia, in severe recollection, "that your mamma was dead. How can she know things?"
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"Do you think she DOESN'T know things?" said Sara, in her stern little voice. Sometimes she had a rather stern little voice.
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"Sara's mamma knows everything," piped in Lottie. "So does my mamma--'cept Sara is my mamma at Miss Minchin's--my other one knows everything. The streets are shining, and there are fields and fields of lilies, and everybody gathers them. Sara tells me when she puts me to bed."
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"You wicked thing," said Lavinia, turning on Sara; "making fairy stories about heaven."
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"There are much more splendid stories in Revelation," returned Sara. "Just look and see! How do you know mine are fairy stories? But I can tell you"--with a fine bit of unheavenly temper--"you will never find out whether they are or not if you're not kinder to people than you are now. Come along,
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kinder to people than you are now. Come along, Lottie." And she marched out of the room, rather hoping that she might see the little servant again somewhere, but she found no trace of her when she got into the hall.
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"Who is that little girl who makes the fires?" she asked Mariette that night. Mariette broke forth into a flow of description.
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Ah, indeed, Mademoiselle Sara might well ask. She was a forlorn little thing who had just taken the place of scullery maid--though, as to being scullery maid, she was everything else besides. She blacked boots and grates, and carried heavy coal-scuttles up and down stairs, and scrubbed floors and
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up and down stairs, and scrubbed floors and cleaned windows, and was ordered about by everybody. She was fourteen years old, but was so stunted in growth that she looked about twelve. In truth, Mariette was sorry for her. She was so timid that if one chanced to speak to her it appeared as if her
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one chanced to speak to her it appeared as if her poor, frightened eyes would jump out of her head.
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"What is her name?" asked Sara, who had sat by the table, with her chin on her hands, as she listened absorbedly to the recital. Her name was Becky. Mariette heard everyone below-stairs calling, "Becky, do this," and "Becky, do that," every five minutes in the day.
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Sara sat and looked into the fire, reflecting on Becky for some time after Mariette left her. She made up a story of which Becky was the ill-used heroine. She thought she looked as if she had never had quite enough to eat. Her very eyes were hungry. She hoped she should see her again, but though
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She hoped she should see her again, but though she caught sight of her carrying things up or down stairs on several occasions, she always seemed in such a hurry and so afraid of being seen that it was impossible to speak to her.
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But a few weeks later, on another foggy afternoon, when she entered her sitting room she found herself confronting a rather pathetic picture. In her own special and pet easy-chair before the bright fire, Becky--with a coal smudge on her nose and several on her apron, with her poor little cap
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several on her apron, with her poor little cap hanging half off her head, and an empty coal box on the floor near her--sat fast asleep, tired out beyond even the endurance of her hard-working young body. She had been sent up to put the bedrooms in order for the evening. There were a great many of
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order for the evening. There were a great many of them, and she had been running about all day. Sara's rooms she had saved until the last. They were not like the other rooms, which were plain and bare. Ordinary pupils were expected to be satisfied with mere necessaries. Sara's comfortable sitting
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with mere necessaries. Sara's comfortable sitting room seemed a bower of luxury to the scullery maid, though it was, in fact, merely a nice, bright little room. But there were pictures and books in it, and curious things from India; there was a sofa and the low, soft chair; Emily sat in a chair of
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and the low, soft chair; Emily sat in a chair of her own, with the air of a presiding goddess, and there was always a glowing fire and a polished grate. Becky saved it until the end of her afternoon's work, because it rested her to go into it, and she always hoped to snatch a few minutes to sit
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she always hoped to snatch a few minutes to sit down in the soft chair and look about her, and think about the wonderful good fortune of the child who owned such surroundings and who went out on the cold days in beautiful hats and coats one tried to catch a glimpse of through the area railing.
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On this afternoon, when she had sat down, the sensation of relief to her short, aching legs had been so wonderful and delightful that it had seemed to soothe her whole body, and the glow of warmth and comfort from the fire had crept over her like a spell, until, as she looked at the red coals, a
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a spell, until, as she looked at the red coals, a tired, slow smile stole over her smudged face, her head nodded forward without her being aware of it, her eyes drooped, and she fell fast asleep. She had really been only about ten minutes in the room when Sara entered, but she was in as deep a
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room when Sara entered, but she was in as deep a sleep as if she had been, like the Sleeping Beauty, slumbering for a hundred years. But she did not look--poor Becky--like a Sleeping Beauty at all. She looked only like an ugly, stunted, worn-out little scullery drudge.
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Sara seemed as much unlike her as if she were a creature from another world.
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On this particular afternoon she had been taking her dancing lesson, and the afternoon on which the dancing master appeared was rather a grand occasion at the seminary, though it occurred every week. The pupils were attired in their prettiest frocks, and as Sara danced particularly well, she was
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and as Sara danced particularly well, she was very much brought forward, and Mariette was requested to make her as diaphanous and fine as possible.
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Today a frock the color of a rose had been put on her, and Mariette had bought some real buds and made her a wreath to wear on her black locks. She had been learning a new, delightful dance in which she had been skimming and flying about the room, like a large rose-colored butterfly, and the
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like a large rose-colored butterfly, and the enjoyment and exercise had brought a brilliant, happy glow into her face.
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When she entered the room, she floated in with a few of the butterfly steps--and there sat Becky, nodding her cap sideways off her head. "Oh!" cried Sara, softly, when she saw her. "That poor thing!"
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It did not occur to her to feel cross at finding her pet chair occupied by the small, dingy figure. To tell the truth, she was quite glad to find it there. When the ill-used heroine of her story wakened, she could talk to her. She crept toward her quietly, and stood looking at her. Becky gave a
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quietly, and stood looking at her. Becky gave a little snore.
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"I wish she'd waken herself," Sara said. "I don't like to waken her. But Miss Minchin would be cross if she found out. I'll just wait a few minutes."
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She took a seat on the edge of the table, and sat swinging her slim, rose-colored legs, and wondering what it would be best to do. Miss Amelia might come in at any moment, and if she did, Becky would be sure to be scolded. "But she is so tired," she thought. "She is so tired!"
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A piece of flaming coal ended her perplexity for her that very moment. It broke off from a large lump and fell on to the fender. Becky started, and opened her eyes with a frightened gasp. She did not know she had fallen asleep. She had only sat down for one moment and felt the beautiful glow--and
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for one moment and felt the beautiful glow--and here she found herself staring in wild alarm at the wonderful pupil, who sat perched quite near her, like a rose-colored fairy, with interested eyes.
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She sprang up and clutched at her cap. She felt it dangling over her ear, and tried wildly to put it straight. Oh, she had got herself into trouble now with a vengeance! To have impudently fallen asleep on such a young lady's chair! She would be turned out of doors without wages.
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She made a sound like a big breathless sob. "Oh, miss! Oh, miss!" she stuttered. "I arst yer pardon, miss! Oh, I do, miss!" Sara jumped down, and came quite close to her.
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Sara jumped down, and came quite close to her. "Don't be frightened," she said, quite as if she had been speaking to a little girl like herself. "It doesn't matter the least bit."
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"I didn't go to do it, miss," protested Becky. "It was the warm fire--an' me bein' so tired. It--it WASN'T impertience!" Sara broke into a friendly little laugh, and put her hand on her shoulder. "You were tired," she said; "you could not help it. You are not really awake yet."
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How poor Becky stared at her! In fact, she had never heard such a nice, friendly sound in anyone's voice before. She was used to being ordered about and scolded, and having her ears boxed. And this one--in her rose-colored dancing afternoon splendor--was looking at her as if she were not a culprit
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looking at her as if she were not a culprit at all--as if she had a right to be tired--even to fall asleep! The touch of the soft, slim little paw on her shoulder was the most amazing thing she had ever known.
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"Ain't--ain't yer angry, miss?" she gasped. "Ain't yer goin' to tell the missus?" "No," cried out Sara. "Of course I'm not."
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"No," cried out Sara. "Of course I'm not." The woeful fright in the coal-smutted face made her suddenly so sorry that she could scarcely bear it. One of her queer thoughts rushed into her mind. She put her hand against Becky's cheek.
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"Why," she said, "we are just the same--I am only a little girl like you. It's just an accident that I am not you, and you are not me!"
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Becky did not understand in the least. Her mind could not grasp such amazing thoughts, and "an accident" meant to her a calamity in which some one was run over or fell off a ladder and was carried to "the 'orspital." "A' accident, miss," she fluttered respectfully. "Is it?"
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"Yes," Sara answered, and she looked at her dreamily for a moment. But the next she spoke in a different tone. She realized that Becky did not know what she meant. "Have you done your work?" she asked. "Dare you stay here a few minutes?" Becky lost her breath again. "Here, miss? Me?"
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Becky lost her breath again. "Here, miss? Me?" Sara ran to the door, opened it, and looked out and listened. "No one is anywhere about," she explained. "If your bedrooms are finished, perhaps you might stay a tiny while. I thought--perhaps--you might like a piece of cake."
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The next ten minutes seemed to Becky like a sort of delirium. Sara opened a cupboard, and gave her a thick slice of cake. She seemed to rejoice when it was devoured in hungry bites. She talked and asked questions, and laughed until Becky's fears actually began to calm themselves, and she once or
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began to calm themselves, and she once or twice gathered boldness enough to ask a question or so herself, daring as she felt it to be.
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"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?"
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For a few seconds Becky was almost speechless with admiration. Then she said in an awed voice, "Onct I see a princess. I was standin' in the street with the crowd outside Covin' Garden, watchin' the swells go inter the operer. An' there was one everyone stared at most. They ses to each other,
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everyone stared at most. They ses to each other, 'That's the princess.' She was a growed-up young lady, but she was pink all over--gownd an' cloak, an' flowers an' all. I called her to mind the minnit I see you, sittin' there on the table, miss. You looked like her."
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"I've often thought," said Sara, in her reflecting voice, "that I should like to be a princess; I wonder what it feels like. I believe I will begin pretending I am one."
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Becky stared at her admiringly, and, as before, did not understand her in the least. She watched her with a sort of adoration. Very soon Sara left her reflections and turned to her with a new question. "Becky," she said, "weren't you listening to that story?"
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"Yes, miss," confessed Becky, a little alarmed again. "I knowed I hadn't orter, but it was that beautiful I--I couldn't help it."
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"I liked you to listen to it," said Sara. "If you tell stories, you like nothing so much as to tell them to people who want to listen. I don't know why it is. Would you like to hear the rest?" Becky lost her breath again.
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Becky lost her breath again. "Me hear it?" she cried. "Like as if I was a pupil, miss! All about the Prince--and the little white Mer-babies swimming about laughing--with stars in their hair?" Sara nodded.
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Sara nodded. "You haven't time to hear it now, I'm afraid," she said; "but if you will tell me just what time you come to do my rooms, I will try to be here and tell you a bit of it every day until it is finished. It's a lovely long one--and I'm always putting new bits to it."
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"Then," breathed Becky, devoutly, "I wouldn't mind HOW heavy the coal boxes was--or WHAT the cook done to me, if--if I might have that to think of." "You may," said Sara. "I'll tell it ALL to you."
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When Becky went downstairs, she was not the same Becky who had staggered up, loaded down by the weight of the coal scuttle. She had an extra piece of cake in her pocket, and she had been fed and warmed, but not only by cake and fire. Something else had warmed and fed her, and the something else was
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warmed and fed her, and the something else was Sara.
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When she was gone Sara sat on her favorite perch on the end of her table. Her feet were on a chair, her elbows on her knees, and her chin in her hands.
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"If I WAS a princess--a REAL princess," she murmured, "I could scatter largess to the populace. But even if I am only a pretend princess, I can invent little things to do for people. Things like this. She was just as happy as if it was largess. I'll pretend that to do things people like is
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I'll pretend that to do things people like is scattering largess. I've scattered largess."
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The Diamond Mines
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Not very long after this a very exciting thing happened. Not only Sara, but the entire school, found it exciting, and made it the chief subject of conversation for weeks after it occurred. In one of his letters Captain Crewe told a most interesting story. A friend who had been at school with him
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story. A friend who had been at school with him when he was a boy had unexpectedly come to see him in India. He was the owner of a large tract of land upon which diamonds had been found, and he was engaged in developing the mines. If all went as was confidently expected, he would become possessed
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confidently expected, he would become possessed of such wealth as it made one dizzy to think of; and because he was fond of the friend of his school days, he had given him an opportunity to share in this enormous fortune by becoming a partner in his scheme. This, at least, was what Sara gathered
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scheme. This, at least, was what Sara gathered from his letters. It is true that any other business scheme, however magnificent, would have had but small attraction for her or for the schoolroom; but "diamond mines" sounded so like the Arabian Nights that no one could be indifferent. Sara thought
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that no one could be indifferent. Sara thought them enchanting, and painted pictures, for Ermengarde and Lottie, of labyrinthine passages in the bowels of the earth, where sparkling stones studded the walls and roofs and ceilings, and strange, dark men dug them out with heavy picks. Ermengarde
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men dug them out with heavy picks. Ermengarde delighted in the story, and Lottie insisted on its being retold to her every evening. Lavinia was very spiteful about it, and told Jessie that she didn't believe such things as diamond mines existed.
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"My mamma has a diamond ring which cost forty pounds," she said. "And it is not a big one, either. If there were mines full of diamonds, people would be so rich it would be ridiculous." "Perhaps Sara will be so rich that she will be ridiculous," giggled Jessie.
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"She's ridiculous without being rich," Lavinia sniffed. "I believe you hate her," said Jessie. "No, I don't," snapped Lavinia. "But I don't believe in mines full of diamonds."
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"Well, people have to get them from somewhere," said Jessie. "Lavinia," with a new giggle, "what do you think Gertrude says?" "I don't know, I'm sure; and I don't care if it's something more about that everlasting Sara."
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"Well, it is. One of her 'pretends' is that she is a princess. She plays it all the time--even in school. She says it makes her learn her lessons better. She wants Ermengarde to be one, too, but Ermengarde says she is too fat." "She IS too fat," said Lavinia. "And Sara is too thin."
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Naturally, Jessie giggled again. "She says it has nothing to do with what you look like, or what you have. It has only to do with what you THINK of, and what you DO." "I suppose she thinks she could be a princess if she was a beggar," said Lavinia. "Let us begin to call her Your Royal Highness."
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Lessons for the day were over, and they were sitting before the schoolroom fire, enjoying the time they liked best. It was the time when Miss Minchin and Miss Amelia were taking their tea in the sitting room sacred to themselves. At this hour a great deal of talking was done, and a great many
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great deal of talking was done, and a great many secrets changed hands, particularly if the younger pupils behaved themselves well, and did not squabble or run about noisily, which it must be confessed they usually did. When they made an uproar the older girls usually interfered with scolding and
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older girls usually interfered with scolding and shakes. They were expected to keep order, and there was danger that if they did not, Miss Minchin or Miss Amelia would appear and put an end to festivities. Even as Lavinia spoke the door opened and Sara entered with Lottie, whose habit was to trot
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Sara entered with Lottie, whose habit was to trot everywhere after her like a little dog.
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"There she is, with that horrid child!" exclaimed Lavinia in a whisper. "If she's so fond of her, why doesn't she keep her in her own room? She will begin howling about something in five minutes."
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It happened that Lottie had been seized with a sudden desire to play in the schoolroom, and had begged her adopted parent to come with her. She joined a group of little ones who were playing in a corner. Sara curled herself up in the window-seat, opened a book, and began to read. It was a book
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opened a book, and began to read. It was a book about the French Revolution, and she was soon lost in a harrowing picture of the prisoners in the Bastille--men who had spent so many years in dungeons that when they were dragged out by those who rescued them, their long, gray hair and beards almost
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them, their long, gray hair and beards almost hid their faces, and they had forgotten that an outside world existed at all, and were like beings in a dream.
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She was so far away from the schoolroom that it was not agreeable to be dragged back suddenly by a howl from Lottie. Never did she find anything so difficult as to keep herself from losing her temper when she was suddenly disturbed while absorbed in a book. People who are fond of books know the
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in a book. People who are fond of books know the feeling of irritation which sweeps over them at such a moment. The temptation to be unreasonable and snappish is one not easy to manage.
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"It makes me feel as if someone had hit me," Sara had told Ermengarde once in confidence. "And as if I want to hit back. I have to remember things quickly to keep from saying something ill-tempered."
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She had to remember things quickly when she laid her book on the window-seat and jumped down from her comfortable corner.
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Lottie had been sliding across the schoolroom floor, and, having first irritated Lavinia and Jessie by making a noise, had ended by falling down and hurting her fat knee. She was screaming and dancing up and down in the midst of a group of friends and enemies, who were alternately coaxing and
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and enemies, who were alternately coaxing and scolding her.
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"Stop this minute, you cry-baby! Stop this minute!" Lavinia commanded. "I'm not a cry-baby ... I'm not!" wailed Lottie. "Sara, Sa--ra!" "If she doesn't stop, Miss Minchin will hear her," cried Jessie. "Lottie darling, I'll give you a penny!"
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"I don't want your penny," sobbed Lottie; and she looked down at the fat knee, and, seeing a drop of blood on it, burst forth again. Sara flew across the room and, kneeling down, put her arms round her. "Now, Lottie," she said. "Now, Lottie, you PROMISED Sara."
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"She said I was a cry-baby," wept Lottie. Sara patted her, but spoke in the steady voice Lottie knew. "But if you cry, you will be one, Lottie pet. You PROMISED." Lottie remembered that she had promised, but she preferred to lift up her voice.
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"I haven't any mamma," she proclaimed. "I haven't--a bit--of mamma." "Yes, you have," said Sara, cheerfully. "Have you forgotten? Don't you know that Sara is your mamma? Don't you want Sara for your mamma?" Lottie cuddled up to her with a consoled sniff.
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Lottie cuddled up to her with a consoled sniff. "Come and sit in the window-seat with me," Sara went on, "and I'll whisper a story to you." "Will you?" whimpered Lottie. "Will you--tell me--about the diamond mines?"
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"The diamond mines?" broke out Lavinia. "Nasty, little spoiled thing, I should like to SLAP her!"
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Sara got up quickly on her feet. It must be remembered that she had been very deeply absorbed in the book about the Bastille, and she had had to recall several things rapidly when she realized that she must go and take care of her adopted child. She was not an angel, and she was not fond of
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She was not an angel, and she was not fond of Lavinia.
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"Well," she said, with some fire, "I should like to slap YOU--but I don't want to slap you!" restraining herself. "At least I both want to slap you--and I should LIKE to slap you--but I WON'T slap you. We are not little gutter children. We are both old enough to know better."
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Here was Lavinia's opportunity. "Ah, yes, your royal highness," she said. "We are princesses, I believe. At least one of us is. The school ought to be very fashionable now Miss Minchin has a princess for a pupil."
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