About: Sara Stanley   Sponge Permalink

An Entity of Type : owl:Thing, within Data Space : 134.155.108.49:8890 associated with source dataset(s)

Sara Stanley is the daughter of Felicity King, Aunt and Blair Stanley. Sara Stanley is the daughter of Felicity King, Aunt and Blair Stanley. She lived with Olivia King and Roger King in Carlisle, on a farm adjoing the King Homestead until the former was married. She owns a cat called Patrick Grayfur. "We saw a girl standing, with a gray cat at her feet. She lifted her hand and beckoned blithely to us; and, the orchard forgotten, we followed her summons. For we knew that this must be the Story Girl; and in that gay and graceful gesture was an allurement not to be gainsaid or denied.

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  • Sara Stanley
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  • Sara Stanley is the daughter of Felicity King, Aunt and Blair Stanley. Sara Stanley is the daughter of Felicity King, Aunt and Blair Stanley. She lived with Olivia King and Roger King in Carlisle, on a farm adjoing the King Homestead until the former was married. She owns a cat called Patrick Grayfur. "We saw a girl standing, with a gray cat at her feet. She lifted her hand and beckoned blithely to us; and, the orchard forgotten, we followed her summons. For we knew that this must be the Story Girl; and in that gay and graceful gesture was an allurement not to be gainsaid or denied.
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abstract
  • Sara Stanley is the daughter of Felicity King, Aunt and Blair Stanley. Sara Stanley is the daughter of Felicity King, Aunt and Blair Stanley. She lived with Olivia King and Roger King in Carlisle, on a farm adjoing the King Homestead until the former was married. She owns a cat called Patrick Grayfur. "We saw a girl standing, with a gray cat at her feet. She lifted her hand and beckoned blithely to us; and, the orchard forgotten, we followed her summons. For we knew that this must be the Story Girl; and in that gay and graceful gesture was an allurement not to be gainsaid or denied. We looked at her as we drew near with such interest that we forgot to feel shy. No, she was not pretty. She was tall for her fourteen years, slim and straight; around her long, white face–rather too long and too white–fell sleek, dark-brown curls, tied above either ear with rosettes of scarlet ribbon. Her large, curving mouth was as red as a poppy, and she had brilliant, almond-shaped, hazel eyes; but we did not think her pretty. Then she spoke; she said, "Good morning." Never had we heard a voice like hers. Never, in all my life since, have I heard such a voice. I cannot describe it. I might say it was clear; I might say it was sweet; I might say it was vibrant and far-reaching and bell-like; all this would be true, but it would give you no real idea of the peculiar quality which made the Story Girl's voice what it was. If voices had colour, hers would have been like a rainbow. It made words live. Whatever she said became a breathing entity, not a mere verbal statement or utterance. Felix and I were too young to understand or analyze the impression it made upon us; but we instantly felt at her greeting that it was a good morning–a surpassingly good morning – the very best morning that had ever happened in this most excellent of worlds. - The Story Girl ch. 2
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