It was not our Story Girl who sat there , telling that weird tale in a sibilant , curdling voice . She had put on a new personality like a garment , and that personality was a venomous , evil , loathly thing . I would rather have died than have touched the slim , brown wrist on which she supported herself . The light in her narrowed orbs was the cold , merciless gleam of the serpent 's eye . I felt frightened of this unholy creature who had suddenly come in our dear Story Girl 's place . When the tale ended there was a brief silence . Then Aunt Janet said severely , but with a sigh of relief , `` Little girls should n't tell such horrible stories . '' This truly Aunt Janetian remark broke the spell . The grown-ups laughed , rather shakily , and the Story Girl -- our own dear Story Girl once more , and no Serpent Woman -- said protestingly , `` Well , Uncle Roger asked me to tell it . I do n't like telling such stories either . They make me feel dreadful . Do you know , for just a little while , I felt exactly like a snake . '' `` You looked like one , '' said Uncle Roger . `` How on earth do you do it ? '' `` I ca n't explain how I do it , '' said the Story Girl perplexedly . `` It just does itself . '' Genius can never explain how it does it . It would not be genius if it could . And the Story Girl had genius . As we left the orchard I walked along behind Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia .
`` That was an uncanny exhibition XXXXX a girl of fourteen , you know , Roger , '' said Aunt Olivia musingly .
As for if like of on than that to with