Michael Rumble to host Design Awards

Poor Ali­ce! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to look through into the gar­den with one eye; but to get through was more hopeless than ever: she sat down and began to cry again.

‘You ought to be asha­med of yourself,’ said Ali­ce, ‘a gre­at girl like you,’ (she might well say this), ‘to go on cry­ing in this way! Stop this moment, I tell you!’ But she went on all the same, shed­ding gal­lons of tears, until the­re was a lar­ge pool all round her, about four inches deep and reaching half down the hall.

After a time she heard a litt­le pat­te­ring of feet in the distance, and she has­ti­ly dried her eyes to see what was com­ing. It was the White Rab­bit retur­ning, sple­ndid­ly dres­sed, with a pair of white kid gloves in one hand and a lar­ge fan in the other: he came trot­ting along in a gre­at hur­ry, mut­te­ring to hims­elf as he came, ‘Oh! the Duch­ess, the Duch­ess! Oh! won’t she be sava­ge if I’ve kept her wai­t­ing!’ Ali­ce felt so despe­ra­te that she was rea­dy to ask help of any one; so, when the Rab­bit came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice, ‘If you plea­se, sir—’ The Rab­bit star­ted vio­lent­ly, drop­ped the white kid gloves and the fan, and skur­ried away into the darkness as hard as he could go.

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