Lizzie. I never saw such a ridiculous figure in the whole course of my life!
Hetty. I should think she came from the back-woods.
Fanny. Who is she, any way?
Lizzie. She's the daughter of the rich Mr. Jones, a man, who, three years ago, was the proprietor of a very small saw-mill away down east. He managed to scrape together a little money, which he invested in certain railroad stocks, which nobody thought would ever pay. They did, however, and he has, no doubt to his own astonishment, made a great deal of money.
Hetty. And that accounts for Miss Precise's partiality. Well, I'm not going to associate myself with her; and I mean to write to father this very day, and tell him to take me home. She dresses so ridiculously!
Lizzie. And talks so horridly!
Fanny. And plays so wretchedly!
Hetty. O, girls, don't you think I caught her at the piano this morning playing Yankee Doodle and whistling an accompaniment!
Fanny. Whistling!
Lizzie. Good gracious! what would Miss Precise say. If there's anything she forbids, it's whistling.