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Little Mistress.

It was not as if Mary was contrary, like the infamous children’s rhyme proclaimed. It was just…a rather inconvenient time to be telling her ugly information, that’s all. She didn’t usually have to stay at Grandma’s house, but she did make a valiant effort to do so once in a while. Anyway, she was busy playing with her dolls. Interrupting her at a crucial time like this never got anyone good results. Adults were so thick sometimes. They appeared to know absolutely everything, and yet, they disappointed her so often. Mother and Grandma Rosa – even with their highly qualified degrees in Parental Guidance – were no exception.
“Mary! Are you listening to me?” That was Mother, of course. She was pink-cheeked and round. And just a bit angry.
“Yes,” the eight-year-old lied, absorbed in the task of brushing a doll’s hair. “Unfortunately.” Was the part added under her breath.
The woman sighed and left Mary’s room in a tiff, rubbing that misshapen midsection of hers, and leaving her daughter to sulk by herself.

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