It were as though she, Miss Emily Braid, had been personally, before the world, defied by a rag doll.

Her temper, whose control had never been her strongest quality, at the vision of the dirty, obstinate child before her, at the thought of the dancing, mocking gardens behind her, flamed into sudden, trembling rage.
She stepped forward, snatched Rose from Angelina's arms, crossed the room and had pushed the doll, with a fierce, energetic action, as though there was no possible time to be lost, into the fire.

She snatched the poker, and with trembling hands pressed the doll down.

There was a great flare of flame; Rose lifted one stolid arm to the gods for vengeance, then a stout leg in a last writhing agony.

Only then, when it was all concluded, did Aunt Emily hear behind her the little half-strangled cry which made her turn.