"You look much prettier as you are every day," said Meg.
"Do I look like your mother?"
"My mother!" repeated the child, and she began to tremble.
"I copied the portrait you drew, roses and all," said the Beauty.
"My mother never painted her cheeks; she never put black under her eyes. You are like a Christy minstrel painted pink and white—that's what you are like!" said Meg, with the concentration of fury in her voice. She turned, unlocked the door, and slammed it behind her.
As she emerged out of the room the dressing bell for tea rang, and she encountered a group of girls waiting outside. They cried breathlessly:
"What are they doing inside?"
"Is not Gwendoline dressing up? Does she rouge her cheeks?"
"I saw a bit of a white dress."