CHAPTER II
SELECTION OF STORIES TO TELL
There is one picture which I can always review, in my own collection of
past scenes, though many a more highly coloured one has been irrevocably
curtained by the folds of forgetfulness. It is the picture of a little
girl, standing by an old-fashioned marble-topped dressing-table in a pink,
sunny room. I can never see the little girl's face, because, somehow, I am
always looking down at her short skirts or twisting my head round against
the hand which patiently combs her stubborn curls. But I can see the
brushes and combs on the marble table quite plainly, and the pinker
streaks of sun on the pink walls. And I can hear. I can hear a low,
wonder-working voice which goes smoothly on and on, as the fingers run up
the little girl's locks or stroke the hair into place on her forehead. The
voice says, "And little Goldilocks came to a little bit of a house. And
she opened the door and went in. It was the house where three Bears lived;
there was a great Bear, a little Bear, and a middle-sized Bear; and they
had gone out for a walk. Goldilocks went in, and she saw"--the little
girl is very still; she would not disturb that story by so much as a loud
breath; but presently the comb comes to a tangle, pulls,--and the little
girl begins to squirm.
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