I'm going to make a most beautiful, embroidered handkerchief case,
with little violets all----"
"Why, you can't, Clem Forsythe!" Polly flew to her feet, sending the ribbon
box flying, and nearly oversetting Phronsie. "You ought not to do any such
thing," she ran on passionately, a little red spot coming on either cheek,
"when you know it'll be just like mine. It would be too mean for anything."
"It won't be just like it," said Clem, twisting uncomfortably, and not
looking up into Polly's face, "for mine is to be a wreath, and yours is a
bunch."
"But it'll be the same thing," cried Polly, too angry to think what she was
saying, "and you're perfectly mean and hateful to copy mine."
"Polly," cried Phronsie, in a distressed little voice. She had gotten up to
her feet, and now hurried over to hold Polly's gown. "Oh, don't, Polly,
don't!"
"Go away," commanded Polly, angrily twitching her gown free; "you don't
know what you are doing, Phronsie, to stop me. She's gone and chosen the
very thing I thought of all by myself."
"I guess there are other violet handkerchief cases in the shops," said Clem
coldly. She was getting over her uncomfortable fit, and now she sprang to
her feet. "And I think you are mean and stingy, too, Polly Pepper"--she
tossed her head high in the air--"to expect to keep all the best things to
yourself, and we're all working ourselves most to death over this old fair.
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