My Father looked at the Old Tom! At his battered ears! At his scarred nose! At his twisted eye! The Old Tom looked at my Father! They both smiled!
"Infamous!" said my Father. "How much will the tickets be?"
We went home. We went home through the fields instead of through the village.
Carol held the Peacock Feather Fan as though he was afraid it would bite him.
Rosalee carried the Old Tom as though she knew it would bite her.
When we got to the Willow Tree they changed prizes. It made a difference.
Rosalee carried the Peacock Feather as though it was a magic sail. She tipped it to the breeze. She pranced it. And danced it. It looked fluffy.
Carol carried the Old Tom hugged tight to his breast. The Old Tom looked very historical. Carol looked very shining and pure. He looked like a choir-boy carrying his singing book. He looked as though his voice would be very high.
My Father and Mother carried each other's hands. They laughed very softly to themselves as though they knew pleasant things that no one else knew.
My hand would have felt pretty lonely if I hadn't had the little gold pencil to carry.