E. Nesbit

“ What have you done?”
“I don’t know,” said Daphne, hopelessly.
“When I do naughtiness,” observed Doris, with pride, “I always know.”
“There’s no mistake about your naughtiness, is there, my cabbage?” said Daphne, as the seventy-three rattled and rustled, rose and filed out. “Now for it. Wish me luck, Columbine, or rather pray to St. Nicholas. He’s the one who looks after naughty children. My doom is fixed—all is indeed over. Farewell. I’ll come out to the terrace as soon as I’ve caught it.” ”

“ The key that Marie Thibault’s brother had got made from a wax impression of the key that blinked in the sun on the wall of the portress’s lodge lay in Daphne’s deep under-pocket. And her heart was glad every time she felt its secret weight jog her knee.
Madame’s surveillance was strict; she thought that she knew everything in her girls’ lives. And, indeed, she did know most things till Daphne came to her kingdom—Daphne, whose father was a bookworm, whose grandfather was an explorer, whose great-grandfather was a lieutenant at Trafalgar. ”

“ Columbine and Doris went down through spring sunshine toward the terrace. The garden was covered with light veils of plum-blossom and little green new leaves, through which boughs and tree trunks still showed strongly black. The borders of the path were alight with anemones, early tulips, late daffodils, and the beginnings of the fallen sky of forget-me-nots. The high wall that lowered above the fruit trees bore a line of mingled fire and blood, wall-flowers red and brown and yellow. The larch by the old convent graveyard, away to the right, wore its new spring green studded with ruby buds. ”