A Little Queen

Once on a dim winter's day, when the yellow mist hung so thick and weighty in the roads of London that the lights were
lit and the shop windows bursted with gas as they do around evening time, an odd-looking young lady sat in a taxi
with her dad and was passed rather leisurely through the large lanes.

She sat with her feet tucked under her, and inclined toward her dad, who held her in his arm,
as she gazed out of the window at the passing individuals with an eccentric antiquated care in her huge eyes.

She was such a young lady that one didn't anticipate seeing such a look on her little face.
It would have been an old search for an offspring of twelve, and Sara Crewe was just seven. The reality was,
in any case, that she was continually dreaming and thinking odd things and couldn't herself recall whenever
had not been thinking things about adult individuals and the world they had a place with. She felt as though
she had carried on with a long, long time.

Right now she was recollecting the journey she had recently produced using Bombay with her dad, Captain Crewe.
She was thinking about the huge boat, of the Lascars passing quietly forward and backward on it,
of the youngsters messing around on the hot deck, and of some youthful officials' spouses who used to attempt
to make her discussion to them and giggle at the things she said.

Basically, she was considering what something eccentric it was that at one at once in India in the bursting sun,
and afterward in the center of the sea, and afterward driving in a peculiar vehicle through weird roads where the
day was pretty much as dim as the evening. She observed this so perplexing that she drew nearer to her dad.