Pollyanna did not realize
anything, in fact, very clearly until a week had passed; then the
fever subsided, the pain lessened somewhat, and her mind awoke to
full consciousness. She had then to be told all over again what
had occurred.
"And so it's hurt that I am, and not sick," she sighed at last.
"Well, I'm glad of that."
"G-glad, Pollyanna?" asked her aunt, who was sitting by the bed.
"Yes. I'd so much rather have broken legs like Mr. Pendleton's
than life-long-invalids like Mrs. Snow, you know. Broken legs get
well, and lifelong-invalids don't."
Miss Polly--who had said nothing whatever about broken legs--got
suddenly to her feet and walked to the little dressing table
across the room. She was picking up one object after another now,
and putting each down, in an aimless fashion quite unlike her
usual decisiveness. Her face was not aimless-looking at all,
however; it was white and drawn.
On the bed Pollyanna lay blinking at the dancing band of colors
on the ceiling, which came from one of the prisms in the window.
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