Dear me, I am sometimes tempted
to think that Judith and I made a mistake in adopting the child.
I suppose two old maids don't know much about bringing up a boy properly.
But he is NOT a bad child, and it really seems to me that there must
be some way of making him behave better if we only knew what it was."
Salome's monologue was cut short by the entrance of her sister Judith,
holding Lionel Hezekiah by his chubby wrist with a determined grip.
Judith Marsh was ten years older than Salome, and the two
women were as different in appearance as night and day.
Salome, in spite of her thirty-five years, looked almost girlish.
She was small and pink and flower-like, with little rings
of pale golden hair clustering all over her head in a most
unspinster-like fashion, and her eyes were big and blue,
and mild as a dove's. Her face was perhaps a weak one, but it
was very sweet and appealing.
Judith Marsh was tall and dark, with a plain, tragic face
and iron-gray hair. Her eyes were black and sombre,
and every feature bespoke unyielding will and determination.
Just now she looked, as Salome had said, "angry clear through,"
and the baleful glances she cast on the small mortal she
held would have withered a more hardened criminal than six
happy-go-lucky years had made of Lionel Hezekiah.
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