Her eyes were of the lagoon blue found in picture postcards of Venice and her hair was a curly yellow brush-heap. Sunning over with curls—you know, sort of ringolets.
In fact, Warble was not unlike one of those Kewpie things, only she was more dressed.
Expelled!
That's the way things were to come to Warble all her life. Fate laid on in broad strokes—in great splashes—in slathers.
Expelled! And she had scarce dared hope for such a thing.
To sound the humor of Warble.
She hated school. Books, restraint, routine, scratching slate pencils, gum under desks, smells—all the set up palette of the schoolroom was not to her a happy vehicle of self-expression.
Often, in hope of being sent home, she had let a rosy tongue-tip protrude from screwed up red lips at teacher, but it had gone unpunished.