“Bring it to me,” she said.
Miss Lizzie took the book from Sadie and looked at it.
Emmy Lou had just failed quite miserably at Problems. Miss Lizzie’s face changed. It was as if a white rage passed over it. She stepped to the stove and cast the book in.
The very flames turned green and gold.
It was gone—the world of glamour, of glory, of dreams—the world of Emmy Lou and Rosalie, of Alice and Amanthus.
It was not Emmy Lou. It was a cry through Emmy Lou. Emmy Lou was just beginning to grow tall, just losing the round-eyed faith of babyhood.
“You hadn’t any right.”
It was terrible. The Fourth Reader class failed to breathe.
Emmy Lou must say she was sorry. Emmy Lou would not.
The hours of school dragged on. Emmy Lou sat silent.