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Anne is reading A Child's Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas
Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he would take it wet or fine on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing, no overcoats and wind-blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite, to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two curling smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars.
Holly is still reading The Christmas Doll by Elvira Woodruff
Never in all her life had Lucy imagined such splendor, such beauty! For there in the window were dolls in striped satin balancing on wires and dolls with straw bonnets and baskets of flowers. There were miniature lady dolls looking most prim and proper and fancy wax dolls in frilly dresses with fine crystal necklaces. Sweet-faced baby dolls slept in their cradles, while golden-haired porcelain dolls took their tea at a little table.
Lily is reading The Cats' Pajamas by Frances Brundage
The next day Mother Puss said to her kittens, "Now, do be careful of your pretty new pajamas while I go to market -- and don't go outside the gate!"
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