the thorn birds colleen mccullough

the rags and brushed her curls in.
Fee used an old Mason Pearson hairbrush, taking one long, scraggly
curl in her left hand and expertly brushing the hair around her index
finger until the entire length of it was rolled into a shining thick
sausage; then she carefully withdrew her finger from the center of
the roll and shook it out into a long, enviably thick curl. This
maneuver was repeated some twelve times, the front curls were then
drawn together on Meggie's crown with a freshly ironed white
taffeta bow, and she was ready for the day. All the other little girls
wore braids to school, saving curls for special occasions, but on this
one point Fee was adamant; Meggie should have curls all the time,
no matter how hard it was to spare the minutes each morning. Had
Fee realized it, her charity was misguided, for her daughter's hair
was far and away the most beautiful in the entire school. To rub the
fact in with daily curls earned Meggie much envy and loathing. The
process hurt, but Meggie was too used to it to notice, never
remembering a time when it had not been done. Fee's muscular arm
yanked the brush ruthlessly through knots and tangles until
Meggie's eyes watered and she had to hang on to the stool with both
hands to keep from falling off. It was the Monday of the last week
at school, and her birthday was only two days away; she clung to
the stool and dreamed about the willow pattern tea set, knowing it
for a dream. There was one in the Wahine general store, and she
knew enough of prices to realize that its cost put it far beyond her
father's slender means.
Suddenly Fee made a sound, so peculiar it jerked Meggie out of her
musing and made the menfolk still seated at the breakfast table turn