"You pretty little thing," women in very large hats said to her.

"Lovely hair," or "She's the very image of _you_, Clarice," to her mother.

She liked to hear that because she greatly admired her mother.

She knew that she, Nancy Ross, was beautiful; she knew that clothes were of an immense importance; she knew that other children were unpleasant.

For the rest, she was neither extravagantly glad nor extravagantly sorry.