“No. They can’t have!” Her exclamation is so sudden that the cat darts away; two leaps and a bound and it is gone. The quail scatter—a gentle drum roll from those that take flight for a few feet, the others propelled in all directions by comical stick legs racing.
“Why should this year be any different? They mightn’t have the money for a doll. And I can’t hurt their feelings, can I? Whatever they’ve got me, I’ll be happy for it.” Honora glances at Mabel. “I will.”
She turns away from Honora and holds a dandelion under William’s chin. She won’t be happy with a stupid old coat. She checks for the amount of yellow reflected against her brother’s skin. Bright means he is very sweet, pale means he is not. The bottom of his chin is bright gold.
She pulls the flower off the dandelion. “You’re not very sweet,” she lies.
“Of course he is,” Honora says. When Honora turns her gentle smile on him, William’s face loses its threat of tears, and he rolls over in the grass and laughs.
Mabel ignores him and slides closer to Honora, so close that their arms press together. Honora’s is hot and dry. Hers is damp and sticky. Together, they pull all the heads off the hollow dandelion stems.
“We’ll make a chain.” Honora demonstrates to William how to poke the thin end of the long stem into its larger, opposite end to create one link after another. “And then we’ll go inside. My eyes hurt.”
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