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Walpole, Hugh, Sir, 1884-1941

"The Golden Scarecrow"


"Over here," she said without a moment's hesitation, and she dragged him
along. She halted at last in a corner of the gardens where was a large,
overhanging chestnut and a wooden seat. Here the shouts and cries of the
children came more dimly, the splashing of the fountain could be heard
like a melodious refrain with a fascinating note of hesitation in it,
and the deep green leaves of the tree made a cool, thick covering. "Very
nice," he said, and sat down on the seat, tilting his hat back and
feeling very happy indeed.
Nancy also was very happy. There, in front of her, was the delightful
pile of earth and sand untouched, it seemed. In an instant, regardless
of her frock, she was down upon her knees.
"I ought to have a spade," she said.
"You'll make yourself dreadfully dirty, Nancy. Your beautiful frock----"
But he had nevertheless the feeling that, after all, he had paid for it,
and if he hadn't the right to see it ruined, who had?
"Oh!" she murmured with the ecstasy of one who has abandoned herself,
freely and with a glad heart, to all the vices. She dug her hands into
the mire, she scattered it about her, she scooped and delved and
excavated.


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