(“I won’t—I won’t!” exclaimed Emily—at least she thought it with such vim that it almost seemed that she exclaimed it. She forgot that she had wanted to die soon, so that she could overtake Father. She wanted to live now, just to put the Murrays in the wrong. “I haven’t any intention of dying. I’m going to live—for ages—and be a famous authoress—you’ll just see if I don’t, Aunt Elizabeth Murray!”)
“She is a weedy looking child,” acknowledged Uncle Wallace.
(Emily relieved her outraged feelings by making a face at Uncle Wallace through the tablecloth. “If I ever possess a pig I am going to name it after you,” she thought—and then felt quite satisfied with her revenge.)
“Somebody has to look after her as long as she’s alive though, you know,” said Uncle Oliver.
(“It would serve you all right if I did die and you suffered terrible remorse for it all the rest of your lives,” Emily thought. Then in the pause that happened to follow, she dramatically pictured out her funeral, selected her pall-bearers, and tried to choose the hymn verse that she wanted engraved on her tombstone. But before she could settle this Uncle Wallace began again.)
“Well, we are not getting anywhere. We have to look after the child—”
(“I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘the child,’” thought Emily bitterly.)
“—and some of us must give her a home. Juliet’s daughter must not be left to the mercy of strangers. Personally, I feel that Eva’s health is not equal to the care and training of a child—”
“Of such a child,” said Aunt Eva.