“Ramona, clean up your room,” she ordered, ad she let the cat and a gust of cold air into the house. Quimby sat down and then got up again as Picky-Picky, indignant at the wet world outdoors, yowled to come in. The television set sat blank and mute, and in the fireplace a log sullenly refused to burn. Quimby, studying at the dining-room table as usual, made his pencil scratch angrily across a pad of paper. Beezus, carrying a towel and shampoo, stalked through the living room into the kitchen, where she began to wash her hair at the sink. The whole family seemed cross today, even Picky-picky who meowed at the front door. Ramona felt as if everything she did was wrong. “And don’t press your nose against the window. Quimby, who was sitting on the couch, sorting through a stack of bills. “Ramona, you haven’t cleaned up your room this weekend,” said Mrs. Ramona longed for sunshine, sidewalks dry enough for roller-skating, a smiling happy family. Quimby had wanted to clear out of the refrigerator, had been dreary, with her parents, who seemed tired or discouraged or both, having little to say and Beezus mysteriously moody. She pressed her nose against the living-room window, watching the ceaseless rain pelting down as bare black branches clawed at the electric wires in front of the house. Rainy Sunday afternoons in November were always dismal, but Ramona felt this Sunday was the most dismal of all.
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