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"
And
the
comb
fits
my
head
!
"
gasped
Alice
.
Mrs
.
Bentley
produced
some
jackstones
.
"
Here
,
"
she
said
.
"
I
once
played
with
these
.
"
She
threw
them
.
They
made
a
constellation
on
the
porch
.
"
And
here
!
"
In
triumph
she
flashed
her
trump
card
,
a
postal
picture
of
herself
when
she
was
seven
years
old
,
in
a
dress
like
a
yellow
butterfly
,
with
her
golden
curls
and
blown
blue
-
glass
eyes
and
angelic
pouting
lips
.
"
Who
’
s
this
little
girl
?
"
asked
Jane
.
"
It
’
s
me
!
"
The
two
girls
held
onto
it
.
"
But
it
doesn
’
t
look
like
you
,
"
said
Jane
simply
.
"
Anybody
could
get
a
picture
like
this
,
somewhere
.
"
They
looked
at
her
for
a
long
moment
.
"
Any
more
pictures
,
Mrs
.
Bentley
?
"
asked
Alice
.
"
Of
you
,
later
?
You
got
a
picture
of
you
at
fifteen
,
and
one
at
twenty
,
and
one
at
forty
and
fifty
?
"
