None of her clothes fitted like Isabel's, her face was tanned,
her hands rough and red, and her nails impossible.
"I look just like a boy," Juliet admitted to herself, "dressed up in
girl's clothes. If Romie's hair was long, and he had on this dress, he'd
look just like me."
Pride forbade her to go to Isabel and inquire into the mysteries of her
all-pervading femininity. Anyhow, Isabel would laugh at her. Anybody
would laugh at her--unless Miss Bernard--but she had gone away. She was
a lady, even more than Isabel, and so was the little old lady everybody
called "Aunt Francesca."
If she could see "Aunt Francesca," she wouldn't be ashamed to tell her
what Romeo had said. If she only knew what to do, she could do it, for
she had plenty of money. Juliet dimly discerned that money was very
necessary if one would be the same sort of "lady" that the others were.
"If Mamma hadn't died," said Juliet, to herself, "I guess I'd have been
as much of a lady as anybody, and nobody would have dared call me a
tomboy." Her heart ached for the gentle little mother who had died many
years ago.
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