Oh, oh, Mr.Boltay, you cannot imagine what a horrible torture it is for a mother who has bad daughters--and mine are bad; but it serves me right! I am the cause of it, for I have always let them have their own way.

Why did I not throw myself in the Danube after my poor dear husband?
But, sir, a mother's heart is never entirely lost to feeling, and, even when her children are bad, she still loves them, still hopes and believes that they may grow better.

For four mortal years I have stood the shame of it, and it is a miracle I have a hair still left on my head for worry and vexation; but at last it has become too much for me; I can stand it no longer.

If I were to tell of the abominations that go on in my house every day, Mr.Boltay, your hair would rise up with horror! Only yesterday I spoke to my daughters, I upbraided them; and the words were no sooner out of my mouth than, like harpies incarnate, they fell upon me, all four of them: 'What do you mean by preaching at us?
What business is it of yours what we do?
Don't we keep you like a lady?
The very dress on your back, the very cap on your head, you got from us! There's not a stick or a straw in the whole house that belongs to you.

We earned it all!' I was terror-stricken.