“O,” she whispered, “I hope so. I have no little friend at all, and
you are so pretty.”
“I have golden hair,” I said. “We can’t all be the same. But yours at
least is very curly. What is your name?”
“Patience Grant,” she said. “My mother died in the convent, and I have
no father. I am not allowed to play with the village children. What is
_your_ name?”