Goodness, as I had known it, was respectable, but not necessarily admirable.

The people I really admired, like my Uncle Solomon, and Cousin Rachel, were those who preached the least and laughed the most.

My sister Frieda was perfectly good, but she did not think the less of me because I played tricks.

What I loved in my friends was not inimitable.

One could be downright good if one really wanted to.