Dorothea would descend to details,
as children will.
"Must we put up with the cod-liver oil that God sends us?"
"Yes, decidedly."
"And with the nurses that God sends us?"
"Certainly; and be thankful that you've got them, some little girls
haven't any nurse. And don't talk so much."
On Friday I found the mother in tears.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing," was the answer; "only Baby. She's such a strange
child. I can't make her out at all. "
"What has she been up to now?"
"Oh, she will argue, you know."
She has that failing. I don't know where she gets it from, but
she's got it.
"Well?"
"Well, she made me cross; and, to punish her, I told her she
shouldn't take her doll's perambulator out with her."
"Yes?"
"Well, she didn't say anything then, but so soon as I was outside
the door, I heard her talking to herself--you know her way?"
"Yes?"
"She said--"
"Yes, she said?"
"She said, 'I must be patient. I must put up with the mother God
has sent me.'"
She lunches down-stairs on Sundays. We have her with us once a week
to give her the opportunity of studying manners and behaviour.
Milson had dropped in, and we were discussing politics.
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