Mrs. Cuberle put a satin handkerchief to her eyes and began to weep.
"Just look at you. Look. I don't know what I ever did to deserve this!"
"Deserve what, Mother? What am I doing that's so wrong?" Mary's mind rippled in a confused stream.
"What!" Mrs. Cuberle screamed, "What! Do you think I want people to point to you and say I'm the mother of an idiot? That's what they'll say, you'll see. Or," she looked up hopefully, "have you changed your mind?"
"No." The vague reasons, longing to be put into words.
"It doesn't hurt. They just take off a little skin and put some on and give you pills and electronic treatments and things like that. It doesn't take more than a week."
"No." The reason.
"Don't you want to be beautiful, like other people—like me? Look at your friend Shala, she's getting her Transformation next month. And she's almost pretty now."
"Mother, I don't care—"
"If it's the bones you're worried about, well, that doesn't hurt. They give you a shot and when you wake up, everything's moulded right. Everything, to suit the personality."