Thus we had a feeling of proprietorship in the Bishop and his garden, and
his niece, Margery, and the Fountain Boy. Hence what was our astonishment
and chagrin to see one morning, from our schoolroom window, a chit of a
girl, smaller than myself, strutting up and down the Bishop's garden,
pushing a doll's perambulator. She had fluffy golden hair about her
shoulders, and her skirts gave a rhythmic swing as she turned the corners.
Now and then she would stop in her walk, remove the covering from the doll,
do some idiotic thing to it, and replace the cover with elaborate care.