'
'But, Milly dear, you forget, he tried to talk to you, and you would not
answer him,' I expostulated.
'And is not that just what I say--I can't talk like other folk--ladies, I
mean. Every one laughs at me; an' I'm dressed like a show, I am. It's a
shame! I saw Polly Shives--what a lady she is, my eyes!--laughing at me in
church last Sunday. I was minded to give her a bit of my mind. An' I know
I'm queer. It's a shame, it is. Why should _I_ be so rum? it is a shame! I
don't want to be so, nor it isn't my fault.'
And poor Milly broke into a flood of tears, and stamped on the ground, and
buried her face in her short frock, which she whisked up to her eyes; and
an odder figure of grief I never beheld.
'And I could not make head or tail of what he was saying,' cried poor Milly
through her buff cotton, with a stamp; 'and you twigged every word o't. An'
why am I so? It's a shame--a shame! Oh, ho, ho! it's a shame!'
'But, my dear Milly, we were talking of _drawing_, and you have not learned
yet, but you shall--I'll teach you; and then you'll understand all about
it.'
'An' every one laughs at me--even you; though you try, Maud, you can scarce
keep from laughing sometimes.
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