The Poor Little Rich Girl by Eleanor Gates


Main
- books.jibble.org



My Books
- IRC Hacks

Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare

External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd

books.jibble.org

Next Page

Page 0

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poor Little Rich Girl, by Eleanor Gates

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net


Title: The Poor Little Rich Girl

Author: Eleanor Gates

Release Date: April 26, 2005 [EBook #15714]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sigal Alon and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.





[Illustration: THIS WAS A NOVEL EXPERIENCE, THIS HAVING BOTH FATHER
AND MOTHER IN THE NURSERY AT THE SAME TIME]



The
POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL

by
ELEANOR GATES

[Illustration]

GROSSET & DUNLAP Publishers NEW YORK




The Poor Little Rich Girl


CHAPTER I


Halfway up the shining surface of the gilt-framed pier glass was a
mark--a tiny ink-line that had been carefully drawn across the outer
edge of the wide bevel. As Gwendolyn stared at the line, the reflection
of her small face in the mirror grew suddenly all white, as if some rude
hand had reached out and brushed away the pink from cheeks and lips.
Arms rigid at her sides, and open palms pressed hard against the flaring
skirts of her riding-coat, she shrank back from the glass.

"Oo-oo!" she breathed, aghast. The gray eyes swam.

After a moment, however, she blinked resolutely to clear her sight,
stepped forward again, and, straightening her slender little figure to
its utmost height, measured herself a second time against the mirror.

But--as before--the top of her yellow head did not reach above the
ink-mark--not by the smallest part of an inch! So there was no longer
any reason to hope! The worst was true! She had drawn the tiny line
across the edge of the bevel the evening before, when she was only six
years old; now it was mid-morning of another day, and she was
seven--_yet she was not a whit taller!_

The tears began to overflow. She pressed her embroidered handkerchief to
her eyes. Then, stifling a sob, she crossed the nursery, stumbling once
or twice as she made toward the long cushioned seat that stretched the
whole width of the front window. There, among the down-filled pillows,
with her loose hair falling about her wet cheeks and screening them, she
lay down.

Next Page


Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Wed 22nd Nov 2017, 3:38