Поллианна

           "Why,yes. Didn’tyouknowit?"criedPollyanna. "Well,no,Ididn’t,"retortedMrs.Snow,dryly. Mrs.Snowhadlivedfortyyears,andforfifteenofthoseyearsshehadbeentoobusywishingthingsweredifferenttofindmuchtimetoenjoythingsastheywere. 

           "Oh,butyoureyesaresobiganddark,andyourhair’salldark,too,andcurly,"cooedPollyanna. "Iloveblackcurls. (That’soneofthethingsI’mgoingtohavewhenIgettoHeaven.) Andyou’vegottwolittleredspotsinyourcheeks. Why,Mrs.Snow,youAREpretty! Ishouldthinkyou’dknowitwhenyoulookedatyourselfintheglass." 

           "Theglass!"snappedthesickwoman,fallingbackonherpillow. "Yes,well,Ihain’tdonemuchprinkin’beforethemirrorthesedays—andyouwouldn’t,ifyouwasflatonyourbackasIam!" 

           "Why,no,ofcoursenot,"agreedPollyanna,sympathetically. "Butwait—justletmeshowyou,"sheexclaimed,skippingovertothebureauandpickingupasmallhand-glass. 

           Onthewaybacktothebedshestopped,eyeingthesickwomanwithacriticalgaze. 

           "Ireckonmaybe,ifyoudon’tmind,I’dliketofixyourhairjustalittlebeforeIletyouseeit,"sheproposed. "MayIfixyourhair,please?" 

           "Why,I—supposeso,ifyouwantto,"permittedMrs.Snow,grudgingly; "but‘twon’tstay,youknow."