Поллианна
Just like a book
Therewasnoanswer. JohnPendletonwasnotsmilingnow. Hewaslookingstraightaheadofhimwitheyesthatseemedtobegazingthroughandbeyondtheobjectbeforethem. AfteratimehedrewalongsighandturnedtoPollyanna. Whenhespokehisvoicecarriedtheoldnervousfretfulness.
"Well,well,thiswillneverdoatall! Ididn’tsendforyoutoseememopingthistime. Listen! Outinthelibrary—thebigroomwherethetelephoneis,youknow—youwillfindacarvedboxonthelowershelfofthebigcasewithglassdoorsinthecornernotfarfromthefireplace. Thatis,it’llbethereifthatconfoundedwomanhasn’t‘regulated’ittosomewhereelse! Youmaybringittome. Itisheavy,butnottooheavyforyoutocarry,Ithink."
"Oh,I’mawfullystrong,"declaredPollyanna,cheerfully,asshesprangtoherfeet. Inaminuteshehadreturnedwiththebox.
Itwasawonderfulhalf-hourthatPollyannaspentthen. Theboxwasfulloftreasures—curiosthatJohnPendletonhadpickedupinyearsoftravel—andconcerningeachtherewassomeentertainingstory,whetheritwereasetofexquisitelycarvedchessmenfromChina,oralittlejadeidolfromIndia.
ItwasaftershehadheardthestoryabouttheidolthatPollyannamurmuredwistfully:
"Well,IsupposeitWOULDbebettertotakealittleboyinIndiatobringup—onethatdidn’tknowanymorethantothinkthatGodwasinthatdoll-thing—thanitwouldbetotakeJimmyBean,alittleboywhoknowsGodisupinthesky. Still,Ican’thelpwishingtheyhadwantedJimmyBean,too,besidestheIndiaboys." JohnPendletondidnotseemtohear. Againhis,eyeswerestaringstraightbeforehim,lookingatnothing. Butsoonhehadrousedhimself,andhadpickedupanothercuriototalkabout.
