She knew the _Herald_ too. She sat so straight Mickey was afraid she
would strain her back, lifting her head "like a queen," if a queen lifts
her head just as high as her neck can possibly stretch, and smiled a cold
little smile of supreme self-satisfaction.
"Now Mickey, go on and read what you wrote about _me_," her Highness
commanded.
The collapse of Mickey was sudden and complete. He stared at Peaches, at
the paper, opened his lips, thought a lie and discarded it, shut his lips
to pen the lie in for sure, and humbly and contritely waited, a silent
candidate for mercy. Peaches had none. To her this was the logical outcome
of what she had been led to expect. There was the paper. The paper was the
_Herald_. There was the front page. There was Mickey's name. She had no
conception of Mickey writing a line which did _not_ concern her; also he
had expressly stated that all of them and the whole book were to be about
her. She indicated the paper and his name, while the condescension of her
waiting began to be touched with impatience.
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