“I don't know as he'd like to have anything quite so nice,” said Mrs. Bolton coldly.
“I don't know as he has anything to say about it,” said Annie, mimicking Mrs. Bolton's accent and syntax.
They both meant Mr. Peck. Mrs. Bolton turned away to hide her pleasure in Annie's audacity and extravagance.
“Want I should carry 'em?” she asked, when they were out of the store.
“No, I can carry them,” said Annie.
She put them where Idella must see them as soon as she woke.
It was late before she slept, and Idella's voice broke upon her dreams. The child was sitting up in her bed, gloating upon the dress and hat hung and perched upon the chair-back in the middle of the room. “Oh, whose is it? Whose is it? Whose is it?” she screamed; and as Annie lifted herself on her elbow, and looked over at her: “Is it mine? Is it mine?”
Annie had thought of playing some joke; of pretending not to understand; of delaying the child's pleasure; playing with it; teasing. But in the face of this rapturous longing, she could only answer, “Yes.”
“Mine? My very own? To have? To keep always?”
“Yes.”