![]() ![]() And who might live here, Lucy? A nice little family, I imagine.”Īnd then a most peculiar conversation ensued, much to Marjorie’s consternation. And what happened to the French-style armoire? Oh, yes, there it is. She tried to cover her agitation by murmuring soft little exclamations, the verbal equivalent of the weak tea one might serve a patient convalescing from a stomach ailment. But when Aunt Prissy came to visit, Marjorie could see that she was upset by the alterations to the house. Lucy had always exhibited an artistic bent far beyond her years. And what had that peculiar little girl done but painted over it! A seascape, of all things. What a lovely house it had been, complete with the most charming decorations even the wallpaper had been scaled down to dollhouse dimensions. ![]() In a corner on a table was the dollhouse that Aunt Prissy had given Lucy for her ninth birthday - a perfect replica of Prissy’s estate, White Oaks. MARJORIE SNOW, wife of the Reverend Stephen Snow, peered into the bedroom of her daughter, Lucy. ![]()
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