Training--training is everything; training is all there is _to_ a person.

We speak of nature; it is folly; there is no such thing as nature; what we call by that misleading name is merely heredity and training.
We have no thoughts of our own, no opinions of our own; they are transmitted to us, trained into us.

All that is original in us, and therefore fairly creditable or discreditable to us, can be covered up and hidden by the point of a cambric needle, all the rest being atoms contributed by, and inherited from, a procession of ancestors that stretches back a billion years to the Adam-clam or grasshopper or monkey from whom our race has been so tediously and ostentatiously and unprofitably developed.

And as for me, all that I think about in this plodding sad pilgrimage, this pathetic drift between the eternities, is to look out and humbly live a pure and high and blameless life, and save that one microscopic atom in me that is truly _me_: the rest may land in Sheol and welcome for all I care.
No, confound her, her intellect was good, she had brains enough, but her training made her an ass--that is, from a many-centuries-later point of view.

To kill the page was no crime--it was her right; and upon her right she stood, serenely and unconscious of offense.
She was a result of generations of training in the unexamined and unassailed belief that the law which permitted her to kill a subject when she chose was a perfectly right and righteous one.
Well, we must give even Satan his due.