Darcy looked.
“How d’you like it?” demanded her instructor.
“N—not as well.”
“I should think likely. You lop.”
“I—I can’t help it.”
“Nonsense! You slump.”
Darcy’s lips slackened petulantly down at the corners. Like a flash, Gloria transfixed the offending mouth with two leveled fingers. “You peeve,” she accused.
Darcy continued to peeve. Also she sniffled. “Your chin is flabby,” pursued the inexorable critic. “Your mouth is fishy. Your eyes are bleary. Your skin is muddy. You walk like a duck, and you stand like a bag. And if you cry I’ll quit you here, now, and forever.”
With a mighty struggle, Darcy choked back her emotions. “I suppose the Lord gave me my face,” she defended herself sulkily.
“Don’t libel your Maker. The Lord gave you a face. See Exhibit B.”