The American dowagers turned pale, and one of them said in a quavering voice, “But what became of Marxentius Communis's world?”
“Why, you're standing on it right now,” Guido told her. “Our world, ladies, is his!”
The two old things let out a squawk of terror and took to their heels.
This time, Guido held out his cap in vain. Guido's favourite pastime, though, was telling stories to Momo on her own, with no one else around.
They were fairy tales, mostly, because Momo liked those best, and they were about Momo and Guido themselves.
Being intended just for the two of them, they sounded quite different from any of the other stories Guido told.
One fine, warm evening the pair of them were sitting quietly, side by side, on the topmost tier of stone steps.
The first stars were already twinkling in the sky, and a big, silvery moon was climbing above the dark silhouettes of the pine trees.
“Will you tell me a story?” Momo asked softly. “All right,” said Guido.
“What about?” “Best of all I'd like it to be about us,” Momo said.
Guido thought a while. Then he said, “What shall we call it?”
“How about The Tale of the Magic Mirror?” Guido nodded thoughtfully.
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