Her brow began to pucker. “If Sister Marguerite is dead, that must mean that I...that I'm—” It took three tries before the next sentence emerged, but then it burst forth like an uncorked geyser: “I'm the oldest living virgin in Oakdale!”

What is your name? she said. … My name's Ermengarde St. John, she answered. / Mine is Sara Crewe, said Sara. Yours is very pretty. It sounds like a story-book.

Gary is off this weekend, so Jeff will be his substitution.

Now, dear Mrs. Santa Claus, stay your tears. I think we can outwit your cunning husband yet. / Mrs. Santa Claus (seizing Fairy’s hand and kissing them).—O you dear, dear Fairy, I shall love you now better than ever.