"Hush, Phronsie, don't talk so loud; they are not doll-houses," said
Polly. "People live in them."
"People live in them!" echoed Phronsie, standing quite still on the
paved road, that shone as if just freshly scoured.
"Yes, yes; come along, child, the people will hear you," said Polly,
seizing her hand.
Phronsie suffered herself to be piloted along, but she stumbled more
than once over the cobbles, her eyes were so busy.
"Take care, Phronsie," warned Polly, "you came near falling on your
nose that time."
"I'll go on the other side," said Jasper; "there, now, Phronsie, give
us your hand. Well, I don't wonder you are surprised. I never saw such
a place as this Broek is."
"They've just washed it all up, haven't they, Jasper?" asked Polly, her
brown eyes scanning the little walks along each tiny garden they
passed. Everything shone alike.
"They're always washing up, I believe," answered Jasper, with a laugh.
"I suppose they live in a pail of water, so to speak."
"Oh, Jasper, in a pail of water!" exclaimed Phronsie, between them,
poking her head out to look for such a strange and unwarrantable sight
provided by the inhabitants of Broek.
"I mean they're always scrubbing, so they can never be separated from
their pails of water," said Jasper.
"It seems almost too bad to step on such clean roads," said Polly,
getting up on her tiptoes, and stepping gingerly off.
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