"Do you know," Peter asked "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories. O Wendy, your mother was telling you such a lovely story."
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"Which story was it?"
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"About the prince who couldn't find the lady who wore the glass slipper."
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"Peter," said Wendy excitedly, "that was Cinderella, and he found her, and they lived happily ever after."
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Peter was so glad that he rose from the floor, where they had been sitting, and hurried to the window.
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"Where are you going?" she cried with misgiving.
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"To tell the other boys."
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"Don't go Peter," she entreated, "I know such lots of stories."
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Those were her precise words, so there can be no denying that it was she who first tempted him.
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He came back, and there was a greedy look in his eyes now which ought to have alarmed her, but did not.
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"Oh, the stories I could tell to the boys!" she cried, and then Peter gripped her and began to draw her toward the window.
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"Let me go!" she ordered him.
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"Wendy, do come with me and tell the other boys."
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Of course she was very pleased to be asked, but she said, "Oh dear, I can't. Think of mummy! Besides, I can't fly."
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"I'll teach you."
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"Oh, how lovely to fly."
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"I'll teach you how to jump on the wind's back, and then away we go."
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"Oo!" she exclaimed rapturously.
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"Wendy, Wendy, when you are sleeping in your silly bed you might be flying about with me saying funny things to the stars."
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"And, Wendy, there are mermaids."
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"Mermaids! With tails?"
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"Such long tails."
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"Oh," cried Wendy, "to see a mermaid!"
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He had become frightfully cunning. "Wendy," he said, "how we should all respect you."
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