"I don't know just what I mean, but you seem so different from everybody
else."
"I'm clean, ain't I?"
"Yes," he admitted, grudgingly.
"And my hair is combed?"
"Sometimes."
"And my white dress is clean, isn't it?"
"Yes, but it doesn't look like--like hers, you know."
"Her? Who's 'her'?"
"You know--Isabel."
Juliet sighed and bit her lips. Her eyes filled with tears and she
winked very hard to keep them back. An ominous pain clutched at her
loyal little heart.
"What do you want me to do, Romie?" she asked, gently.
"Why, I don't know. Men never know about such things. Just make yourself
like her--that's all."
"Huh!" Juliet was scornful now. "I don't know whether I want to look
like her or not," she remarked, coldly.
"Why not?" he flashed back.
"And I don't want to be like her, either. She can't do anything. She
can't cook, or swing on the trapeze, or skate, or fish, or row, or swim,
or climb a tree, or ride horseback, or walk, or anything." "I could
teach her," mused Romeo, half to himself. "I taught you."
"Yes," cried Juliet, swallowing the persistent lump in her throat, "and
now you've done it, you're ashamed of me!"
"I didn't say so," he temporised.
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