"Much more awful to spoil Mamma's pleasure in God and Jesus. I did it to make her happy. Somebody had to go with her. You wouldn't, so I did … It doesn't matter, Minky. Nothing matters except Mamma."
"Truth matters. You'd die rather than lie or do anything dishonourable.
Yet that was dishonourable."
"I'd die rather than hurt Mamma … If you make her unhappy, Minky, I shall hate you."
V.
"You can't go in that thing."
They were going to the Sutcliffes' dance. Mamma hadn't told Mark she didn't like them. She wanted Mark to go to the dance. He had said Morfe was an awful hole and it wasn't good for you to live in it.
The frock was black muslin, ironed out. Mamma's black net Indian scarf, dotted with little green and scarlet flowers, was drawn tight over her hips to hide the place that Catty had scorched with the iron. The heavy, brilliant, silk-embroidered ends, green and scarlet, hung down behind. She felt exquisitely light and slender.
Mamma was shaking her head at Mark as he stared at you.
"If you knew," he said, "what you look like … That's the way the funny ladies dress in the bazaars—If you'd only take that awful thing off."
"She can't take it off," Mamma said. "He's only teasing you."