It was disappointment that
made her talk as she did. But it was natural she should feel
disappointment, for it never rained when she had her umbrella, and her
goloshes were always coming off.
"She's stuck in a hole," thought Tim, "and so she just says things at
us. She hurts herself somewhere. She's tired."
"She has to be like that," thought Judy. "It's really all pretending.
Poor old thing!"
But Aunt Emily was not aware of what they felt. They were out of bed,
and it was her duty to find fault; they were out of bounds, and she
must take note of it. So she prepared to scold a little. Her bonnet
waggled ominously. She gripped her umbrella. She spoke as though it
was very early in the morning, almost dawn--as though the sun were
rising. There was confusion in her as to the time of day, it seemed.
But the children did not notice this. They were so accustomed to being
rebuked by her that the actual words made small impression. She was
just "saying things"; they were often very muddled things; the
attitude, not the meaning, counted. And her attitude, they divined,
was subtly different.
"You know this is forbidden," she said.
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