“I do not like white roses.”
“What does it signify?” cried Rosa, whose black eye shone like a beacon. “You mock me!”
“Moss roses do not please me,” said one of the smallest girls, hastily hiding under the table.
“Nor the passion roses, me.”
“Nor the roses of Jericho, me.”
“Nor the yellow roses, me.”
The strong and clear voice of Marisalada drowned all other voices—
“I cannot bear dry roses,” cried she.
“I cannot bear dry roses,” repeated all the scholars in chorus.
Rosa Mistica, who at the commencement was only astonished, rose up on seeing so much insolence, ran to the kitchen, and returned armed with a broom.