Hetty. And dresses so ridiculously!
Lizzie. If she stays here, I shan't!
Fanny. Nor I.
Hetty. Nor I.
Miss P. Young ladies, are you pupils of the finest finishing-school in the city? Are you being nursed at the fount of learning? Are you being led in the paths of literature by my fostering hands?
Lizzie. Don't know. S'pose so.
Miss P. S'pose so! What language! S'pose so! Is this the fruit of my teaching? Young ladies, I blush for you!—you, who should be the patterns of propriety! Let me hear no more of this. Miss Jones is the daughter of one of the richest men in the city, and, as such, she should be respected by you.
Lizzie. She's a low, ignorant girl.
Miss P. Miss Bond!
Hetty. With arms like a windmill.