The girls'd like
to put it down to your mother and me, but I don't believe it. I'm
ashamed to say it, but I'm afraid it's the girls themselves. There's
something not right about them, but I'm blessed if I know what it is.
Their mother and I are a bit vulgar, I know, but I've done my best to
copy those who know how to behave--and I believe we'd get through for
what we are anywhere without giving offence. But my girls oughtn't to
be vulgar. It's education as does away with that, and I've filled em
chock-full of education from the time they were babies. It's run out of
them, Mary, like the sands through an hour-glass. They can speak
correctly, and I dare say they know all the small society tricks. But
that isn't everything. They don't know how to dress. They can spend
just as much as they like, and then you can come into the room in a
black gown as you made yourself, and you look a lady, and they don't.
That's the long and short of it. The only decent people who come to
this house are your friends, and they come to see you. There's young
Brooks, now. I've no son, Mary, and I'm fond of young men.
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