Maggie's hair, as she threw off her bonnet, painfully confirmed her mother's accusation: Mrs Tulliver, desiring her daughter to have a curled crop, "like other folks's children," had had it cut too short in front to be pushed behind the ears; and as it was usually straight an hour after it had been taken out of paper, Maggie was incessantly tossing her head to keep the dark heavy locks out of her gleaming black eyes—an action which gave her very much the air of a small Shetland pony.
"O dear, O dear, Maggie, what are you thinkin' of, to throw your bonnet down there? Take it up-stairs, there's a good gell, an' let your hair be brushed, an' put your other pinafore on, an' change your shoes—do, for shame; an' come an' go on with your patchwork, like a little lady."
"O mother," said Maggie, in a vehemently cross tone, "I don't want to do my patchwork."
"What! not your pretty patchwork, to make a counterpane for your aunt Glegg?"
"It's foolish work," said Maggie, with a toss of her mane, "tearing things to pieces to sew 'em together again. And I don't want to do anything for my aunt Glegg—I don't like her."
Exit Maggie, dragging her bonnet by the string, while Mr Tulliver laughs audibly.
