But it was all
to no purpose, and this made Rosy still more vexed.
"Mamma," she said at last, for really it was too bad--wasn't it?--when
she had given herself such a lot of trouble to show how vexed she was,
that no one should take any notice. "_Mamma_" she repeated.
But still no one answered, and obliged at last to turn round, for her
patience was at an end, Rosy saw that there was no one in the room.
Mamma had gone away! That was a great shame--really a _great_
shame. Rosy was offended, and she wanted mamma to see how offended she
was, and mamma chose just that moment to leave the room. Rosy looked
round--there was no good going on pouting and frowning and drumming
and stamping to make mamma notice her if mamma wasn't there, and all
that sort of going on caused Rosy a good deal of trouble. So she left
off. But she wanted to quarrel with somebody. In fact, she felt that
she _must_ quarrel with somebody. She looked round again. The
only "somebody" to be seen was mamma's big, _big_ Persian cat,
whose name was "Manchon" (_why_, Rosy did not know; she thought
it a very stupid name), of whom, to tell the truth, Rosy was rather
afraid. For Manchon could look very grand and terrible when he reared
up his back, and swept about his magnificent tail; and though he had
never been known to hurt anybody, and mamma said he was the gentlest
of animals, Rosy felt sure that he could do all sorts of things to
punish his enemies if he chose.
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