I stopped you
because I know you are a simpleton, and so I could not tell what might
pop out next."
"Oh, thank you, aunt--thank you," cried Lucy, warmly. "Then I did not
expose myself, after all."
"No, no; you said nothing that might not be proclaimed at St. Paul's
Cross--ha! ha!"
"Am I a simpleton, aunt?" inquired Lucy, in the tone of an indifferent
person seeking knowledge.
"Not you," replied this oblivious lady. "You know a great deal more
than most girls of your age. To be sure, girls that have been at a
fashionable school generally manage to learn one or two things you
have no idea of."
"Naturally."
"As you say--he! he! But you make up for it, my dear, in other
respects. If the gentlemen take you for a pane of glass, why, all the
better; meantime, shall I tell you your real character? I have only
just discovered it myself."
"Oh, yes, aunt, tell me my character. I should so like to hear it from
you."
"Should you?" said the other, a little satirically; "well, then, you
are an INNOCENT FOX."
"Aunt!"
"An in-no-cent fox; so run and get your work-box. I want you to run up
a tear in my flounce."
Lucy went thoughtfully for her workbox, murmuring ruefully, "I am an
innocent fox--I am an in-nocent fox."
She did not like her new character at all; it mortified her, and
seemed self-contradictory as well as derogatory.
On her return she could not help remonstrating: "How can that be my
character? A fox is cunning, and I despise cunning; and _I am
sure_ I am not _innocent,"_ added she, putting up both hands
and looking penitent.
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