"Yes, she has. An' I give her a five-o'clock tea," cried Rag, in a burst,
who, thinking that she was probably now going to be killed, began to take
pleasure in telling all she knew. "Swell folks does; I seen 'em plenty of
times on th' avenoo, an' here, too"--she nodded toward the long French
windows--"an' I got as good a right, I guess. An' she let me take her doll,
an' I like her. An' we had an orful good time till Gran came in, an' then
we lit out, an' I brung her home. Now what you goin' to do about it?" She
folded her thin arms as well as she could, for Polly was still holding to
one, and glared defiantly out of her sharp, black eyes.
"Oh, Grandpapa, her arms!" Polly was pointing to the long, red welts.
Rag turned as if shot, and twitched the ragged sleeves down, tucking the
free arm behind her back. "Lemme go, you girl: you hain't no right to see
'em, it's none o' your business," she screamed at Polly. Old Mr. King had
sunk into a chair. Phronsie, in his lap, was so busy in putting her face
close to his, and telling him that it was really her own poor little girl,
that she had failed to see the arms and the disclosures they had made.
"Go and get your mother," he said, after a breathing space. "Oh, stay! I
can't hold her"--with a gesture of disgust.
"An' you ain't a-goin' to tetch me," declared Rag proudly; "no, sir-ee!"
"Well, Phronsie, you jump down and go and get your mother," Mr.
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