Every one of them was talking at the extreme pitch of her voice, and the noise was considerable.

Patricia Marshall and Clarice Nixon looked at each other and frowned ominously, but as the hands of the big clock pointed almost to three, they judged it better not to interfere, and the din continued.
At the stroke of the hour, Margaret Howell strode on to the platform.
She was a tall, fine-looking girl of seventeen, with bright hazel eyes, regular features, and a thick brown plait that fell below her waist.

Her ready powers of speech, clear ringing voice, brisk decisive tone, and a certain personal magnetism showed her to be that _rara avis_, a born leader.

It was fortunate indeed for the school that its headship this year should have fallen to Margaret.

The need for a firm but judicious hand on the reins was great.