“If I’m not dressed in ten minutes, my name’s not Rosalie Paleaf.”
Then with a sudden change to alarm in her manner, she turned round, growing alternately hot and cold.
“I say, where are my things? I can’t see them anywhere.”
“I took them away last night. There are your clothes for the day.” And she directed her attention to a chair on which some very pretty and expensive lingerie was laid.
Rosalie looked at it, then drew herself up.
“I want my own clothes,” she said. “These are too good for me; the others might be poor, but they were my own.”
“I am afraid you cannot have them; you must dress in these.”
The tears rose in Rosalie’s eyes.
“I want my own clothes,” she said again. “Auntie and I cut and made them together. They were the last pair of stockings that she ever knit.”
There was no answer.