I'd so much rather have broken legs like Mr.Pendleton's than life-long-invalids like Mrs.Snow, you know.

Broken legs get well, and lifelong-invalids don't." Miss Polly--who had said nothing whatever about broken legs--got suddenly to her feet and walked to the little dressing table across the room.

She was picking up one object after another now, and putting each down, in an aimless fashion quite unlike her usual decisiveness.

Her face was not aimless-looking at all, however; it was white and drawn.
On the bed Pollyanna lay blinking at the dancing band of colors on the ceiling, which came from one of the prisms in the window.
"I'm glad it isn't smallpox that ails me, too," she murmured contentedly.

"That would be worse than freckles.