Instead she ran,
got a pitcher of water, carried it back to the summerhouse and left
the flowers temporarily there, hoping to figure out ways and means
later.
At the house she discovered that the baby was awake, so she had to
hurry back to take care of him. She always loved to do that; she
didn't mind that a desire to dress up in her party attire had just
struck her, for the baby always entered into the spirit of her
performances. While she was fastening up the pink dotted mull, Poppy
walked inquisitively in and sat down to oversee this special,
important event. Missy succeeded with the greatest difficulty in
adjusting the brocaded sash to her satisfaction. She regretted her
unwaved hair, but mother was going to crimp it herself in the
evening. The straight, everyday coiffure marred the picture in the
mirror, yet, aided by her imagination, it was pleasing. She stood
with arms extended in a languid, graceful pose, her head thrown
back, gazing with half-closed eyes at something far, far beyond her
own eyes in the glass.
Then suddenly she began to dance. She danced with her feet, her
arms, her hands, her soul.
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