'Dear me, Papachen,' I murmured.
'Beaten out flat,' said Papa, waving my interruption aside with his spectacles, 'by the dead weight of opinions already stale, the victims of a system, the subjects of an experiment, the prisoners of prejudice, are bound either to flare into rank rebellion on the first opportunity or to grow continually drearier and more conspicuously stupid.'
Vicki stared first up at Papa then at me, her soft, crumpled sort of mouth twisted into troubled surprise.
Papa leaned further out and hit the window sill with his hand for all the world like a parson hitting his pulpit's cushion. 'One word,' he said, 'one word of praise or blame, one single word from an outsider will have more effect upon your offspring than years of trouble taken by yourself, mountains of doctrine preached by you, rivers of good advice, oceans of exhortations, cautions as numerous as Abraham's posterity, well known to have been as numerous as the sea sand, private prayers, and public admonition.'
And he disappeared with a jerk.
'Ach,' said Vicki, much impressed.
Papa popped out his head again. 'You may believe me, Rose-Marie,' he said.
'I do, Papachen,' said I.
'You have to thank me for much.'
'And I do,' said I heartily, smiling up at him.