At first, Jeanne had been precious only because she was Elizabeth's daughter. As for Mollie's children, they were simply little pieces of Mollie. With the years, Mollie had grown so unlovely that one really couldn't expect a fastidious person to like four small copies of her. Unfortunately, perhaps, Léon Duval was a very fastidious person.
Mrs. Shannon, perpetually crouched over the battered stove for warmth, had a grievance.
"If Duval earned half as much as any other fisherman around here," said she, in her harsh, disagreeable voice, "we'd be livin' in a real house on dry land. And what's more, Mollie, you ain't gettin' all he earns. He's savin' on you. He's got money in the bank. I seen a bankbook a-stickin' out of his pocket. You ain't gettin' what you'd ought to have; I know you ain't."
"Leave me be," returned Mollie. "We gets enough to eat and more'n a body wants to cook. Clothes is a bother any way you want to look at 'em."
"He's a-saving fer Jeanne," declared the old lady. "'Tain't fair to you. 'Tain't fair to your children."
"Well," said Mollie, waking up for a moment, "I dunno as I blame him. I likes Jeanne better myself. She's got looks, Jeanne has; an' she's always been a good child, with nice ways with her. Neither me nor mine has much more looks nor a lump o' putty."
"You'd have some, if you was tidy."
"Well, I ain't," returned Mollie, truthfully. "You got to lace yourself in, an' keep buttoned up tight an' wear tight shoes an' keep your stockings fastened up an' your head full o' hairpins if you wants to look neat, when you're fat, like I be. I hates all of them things. I'd ruther be comfortable."
Jeanne had often wondered how soft, plump Mollie could be comfortable with strands of red hair straggling about her face, with her fat neck exposed to the weather, her uncorseted figure billowing under her shapeless wrapper, her feet scuffling about in shoes several times too large. Even when dressed for the street, she was not much neater. But that was Mollie. Gentle as she was and thoroughly sweet-tempered, it was as impossible to stir her to action as it was to upset her serenity. As for wrath, Mollie simply hadn't any.
"You could burn the house down," declared Mrs. Shannon, "an' Mollie'd crawl into the Cinder Pond an' set there an' sleep. Her paw died just because he was too lazy to stay alive, and she's just like him—red hair and all. If it was red red hair, there'd be some get up and go to them Shannons; but it ain't. It's just carrot red, with yaller streaks."