And after that, in her father's study from which he had fled with his morning cigar, for two hours Edith held school for her children, trying her best to be patient and clear, with text-books she had purchased from their former schools uptown.
For two severe hours, shutting the world all out of her head, she tried to teach them about it.

At eleven, their nerves on edge like her own, she sent them outdoors "to play," intrusting the small ones to Betsy and George, who took them to Washington Square nearby with strict injunctions to keep them away from all other children.

No doubt there were "nice" children there, but she herself could not be along to distinguish the "nice" from the "common"-- for until one o'clock she was busy at home, bathing the baby and making the beds, and then hurrying to the kitchen to pasteurize the baby's milk and keep a vigilant oversight on the cooking of the midday meal.

And the old cook's growing resentment made it far from easy.
After luncheon, thank heaven, came their naps.

And all afternoon, while again they went out, Edith would look over their wardrobes, mend and alter and patch and contrive how to make last winter's clothes look new.