On Friday I found the mother in tears.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing,” was the answer; “only Baby. She’s such a strange child. I can’t make her out at all.”
“What has she been up to now?”
“Oh, she will argue, you know.”
She has that failing. I don’t know where she gets it from, but she’s got it.
“Well?”
“Well, she made me cross; and, to punish her, I told her she shouldn’t take her doll’s perambulator out with her.”
“Yes?”
“Well, she didn’t say anything then, but so soon as I was outside the door, I heard her talking to herself—you know her way?”