“Anna Brangwen,” came the immediate, haughty answer.
“Indeed it is! An' do you like driving in a trap with your father?”
“Yes,” said Anna, shy, but bored by these inanities. She had a touch-me-not way of blighting the inane inquiries of grown-up people.
“My word, she's a fawce little thing,” the landlady would say to Brangwen.
“Ay,” he answered, not encouraging comments on the child. Then there followed the present of a biscuit, or of cake, which Anna accepted as her dues.
“What does she say, that I'm a fawce little thing?” the small girl asked afterwards.
“She means you're a sharp-shins.”