She walked quite steadily, with an occasional little hop and skip of exuberant childhood.
She could talk a little, in disconnected sentences, with fascinating mistakes in the sounds of letters, but she preferred a gurgle of laughter when she was pleased, and a wail of woe when things went wrong.

She was still in the limbos of primitivism.

She was young with the babyhood of the world.

To-day she danced up to her father with her little thrill of laughter, at once as meaningless and as full of meaning as the trill of a canary.

She pursed up her little lips for a kiss, she flung frantic arms of adoration around his neck.