I sat
perfectly still in a large chair, and except for an ocasional
sneaze, was quiet.
Only once did my parent adress me in an hour, when he said:
"What the devil's making you sneaze so?"
"My noze, I think, sir," I said meekly.
"Humph!" he said. "It's rather a small noze to be making
such a racket."
I was cut to the heart, dear Dairy. One of my dearest
dreams has always been a delicate noze, slightly arched and long
enough to be truly aristocratic. Not realy acqualine but on the
verge. I _hate_ my little noze--hate it--hate it--_hate it_.
"Father" I said, rising and on the point of tears. "How can
you! To taunt me with what is not my own fault, but partly
heredatary and partly carelessness. For if you had pinched it in
infansy it would have been a good noze, and not a pug. And----"
"Good gracious!" he exclaimed. "Why, Bab, I never meant to
insult your noze. As a matter of fact, it's a good noze. It's
exactly the sort of noze you ought to have. Why, what in the
world would _you_ do with a Roman noze?"
I have not been feeling very well, dear Dairy, and so I
sudenly began to weap.
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