Olive learnt that her young beauty's name, so far from being anything so fine as Maddalena, was plain Sarah — or Sara, as its owner took care to explain. Olive was rather disappointed - but she thought of Coleridge's ladye love; consoled herself, and tried to console the young lady, with repeating
My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined, &c.
At which Miss Sara Derwent laughed, and asked who wrote that very pretty poetry?

'I wish I was called Sara,' she said out loud.
'Sarah?' her mother said. 'Why the heck is being called Sarah better than being called Tracy?'
'Not Sarah, Sara,' Tracy said. 'There's no h, you say Saaara.'

Sara

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