Dance away, my little man, said Peter, who was in high good humour.
But we want you to dance.
Peter was really the best dancer among them, but he pretended to be
scandalised.
Me! My old bones would rattle!
And mummy too.
What, cried Wendy, the mother of such an armful, dance!
But on a Saturday night, Slightly insinuated.
It was not really Saturday night, at least it may have been, for they
had long lost count of the days; but always if they wanted to do
anything special they said this was Saturday night, and then they did
it.
Of course it is Saturday night, Peter, Wendy said, relenting.
People of our figure, Wendy!
But it is only among our own progeny.
True, true.
So they were told they could dance, but they must put on their nighties
first.
Ah, old lady, Peter said aside to Wendy, warming himself by the fire
and looking down at her as she sat turning a heel, there is nothing
more pleasant of an evening for you and me when the day s toil is over
than to rest by the fire with the little ones near by.
It is sweet, Peter, isn t it? Wendy said, frightfully gratified.
Peter, I think Curly has your nose.
Michael takes after you.
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