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Lulu had not grown big, but she had grown round That look of the

prie, had softened and sobered

Her beaute troublante had gone Her face was, the face of a happy woman

The maternal look in her eyes was duplicated by the ure She was always busy Even now, though she chattered, she sewed;

her little fingers fluttered like the wings of an imprisoned bird

Indeed, she looked like a little sober ray and brown

draperies She was the best housewife a them Honey lacked no

creature coure, she had improved; her elfin

thinness had become slimness, delicately curved and subtly contoured

Also her coloring had deepened; she was like a woold But

her expression was not pleasant Her light, gray-green eyes had a

petulant look; her thin, red lips a petulant droop She was restless;

soers

adjusted her hair or her long slender feet beat a tattoo And ever her

figure shifted from one fluid pose to another She wore jewels in her

elaborately arranged hair, jewels about her neck, on her wrists, on her

fingers Her green draperies were embroidered in beads She was, in

fact, always dressed, costumed is perhaps the most appropriate word She

dressed Peterkin picturesquely too; she was always, studying the

illustrations in their few books for ideas Clara was one of those woaze alith a

question in their eyes