Then what did that
blood-thirsty monster do but scuttle as fast as she could into
Dear-my-Soul's room, leap up into Dear-my-Soul's crib, and walk off
with the pretty little white muff which Dear-my-Soul used to wear when
she went for a visit to the little girl in the next block! What upon
earth did the horrid old cat want with Dear-my-Soul's pretty little
white muff? Ah, the duplicity, the diabolical ingenuity of that cat!
Listen.
"In the first place," resumed the little mauve mouse, after a pause
that testified eloquently to the depth of her emotion,--"in the first
place, that wretched cat dressed herself up in that pretty little
white muff, by which you are to understand that she crawled through
the muff just so far as to leave her four cruel legs at liberty."
"Yes, I understand," said the old clock.
"Then she put on the boy doll's fur cap," said the little mauve mouse,
"and when she was arrayed in the boy doll's fur cap and Dear-my-Soul's
pretty little white muff, of course she didn't look like a cruel cat
at all. But whom did she look like?"
"Like the boy doll," suggested the old clock.
"No, no!" cried the little mauve mouse.
"Like Dear-my-Soul?" asked the old clock.
"How stupid you are!" exclaimed the little mauve mouse. "Why, she
looked like Santa Claus, of course!"
"Oh, yes; I see," said the old clock. "Now I begin to be interested;
go on."
"Alas!" sighed the little mauve mouse, "not much remains to be told;
but there is more of my story left than there was of Squeaknibble when
that horrid cat crawled out of that miserable disguise.
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