"Well then, she's half our cat."

"I want her," said Mary. She said it again and again.

Mamma came and took her into the room with the big bed.

The gas blazed in the white globes. Lovely white lights washed like
water over the polished yellow furniture: the bed, the great high
wardrobe, the chests of drawers, the twisted poles of the
looking-glass. There were soft rounds and edges of blond light on the
white marble chimney-piece and the white marble washstand. The drawn
curtains were covered with shining silver patterns on a sleek green
ground that shone. All these things showed again in the long, flashing
mirrors.

Mary looked round the room and wondered why the squat grey men had gone
out of the curtains.

"Don't look about you," said Mamma. "Look at me. Why do you want
Sarah?"

She had forgotten Sarah.

"Because," she said, "Sarah is so sweet."

"Mamma gave Sarah to Mark. Mary mustn't want what isn't given her. Mark
doesn't say, 'I want Mary's dollies.' Papa doesn't say, 'I want Mamma's
workbox.'"