Tracy extended her hands to Bobaday and aunt Corinne, drawing
one to each side of her, and made the most minute inquiries about
Fairy Carrie. She knew that the child had called herself Rose, and
that she had been in a partially stupified state during her stay with
the little caravan. But when Robert mentioned the dark circles in the
child's face, and her crying behind the tent, the lady turned white
and leaned back, closing her eyes and groping for a small yellow
bottle in her pocket. Having smelled of this, she recovered herself.
But aunt Corinne, in spite of her passionate sympathy, could barely
keep from tittering at the latter action. Though the smelling bottle
was yellow, instead of a dull blue, like the one Ma Padgett kept in
the top bureau drawer at home, aunt Corinne recognized her enemy and
remembered the time she hunted out that treasure and took a long,
strong, tremendous snuff at it, expecting to revel in odors of
delight. Her head tingled again while she thought about it; she felt
a thousand needles running through her nose, and saw herself sitting
on the floor shedding tears. How anybody could sniff at a hartshorn
bottle and find it a consolation or restorative under any
circumstances, she could not understand.
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