“Am I allowed to read?” Miriam said rising and going with hands outstretched for the magic leaves.
“Yes,” he chuckled, gathering up and handing. “Let’s try it on Miriam. I warn you she’s deadly. And of a voracity. She reads at a gulp; spots everything; more than everything; turns on you and lays you out.”
Miriam stood considering him. Happy. He had really noticed and remembered the things she had said from time to time. But they were expecting a response.
“I shan’t understand. I know I shan’t. May I really take them away?”
“Now don’t, Miriam ...” taking his time, keeping her arrested before them, with his held-up minatory finger and mocking friendly smile, “don’t under-rate your intelligence.”
“May I really take them,” she flounced, ignoring him; holding herself apart with Miss Prout. The air danced between them sunlit from between branches. A fresh perspective opened. She was to meet her. See her unfold before her eyes in the pages of the book.
“Yes, do,” she smiled, a swift nice look, not scrutinising.
“How alive they look; much more alive than a book in its suit of neat binding.”
“We’re all literary,” joined his quick voice. She blushed with pleasure. Included; with only those ghastly little reviews. Not mocking. Quite gravely. She beamed her gratitude and turned away blissful.