When there was not quite enough yet, from somewhere mother brought out money that she'd saved for a long time, from butter and eggs, and chickens, and turkeys, and fruit and lard, and things that belonged to her.
Father hated to use it the worst way, but she said she'd saved it for an emergency, and now seemed to be the time.
She said if the child really had talent, she should be about developing it, and while there would be many who would have far finer things than Shelley, still she meant her to have enough that she wouldn't be the worst looking one, and so ashamed she couldn't keep her mind on her work.

Father said, with her face it didn't make any difference what she wore, and mother said that was just like a man; it made all the difference in the world what a girl wore.

Father said maybe it did to the girl, and other women; what he meant was that it made none to a man.

Mother said the chief aim and end of a girl's life was not wrapped up in a man; and father said maybe not with some girls, but it would be with Shelley: she was too pretty to escape.

I do wonder if I'm going to be too pretty to escape, when I put on long dresses.
Sometimes I look in the glass to see if it's coming, but I don't suppose it's any use.