“It can’t be worse even in Atlanta,” said Jean to Mimi sorrowfully one day. “I can’t stand to see the changes any longer—it’s too much like watching at the bedside of a dearly loved one who rapidly wastes away from a loathsome disease.”
Then did Mimi know they would someday soon leave New Orleans never to return. The prospect at times frightened her—at times, with the venturesomeness of eager youth, she looked forward to new faces, new scenes, new experiences. …
“Good morning, Mme. Daquin,” was Mimi’s greeting to her stepmother as she entered the dining-room and slipped into her place at the table.
“Morning? It’s nearer afternoon,” acidulously replied Mme. Daquin. Jean winced and looked appealingly at Mimi.
“You’re as shiftless and slow as your father,” continued Mary. “You know we’ll be busy as can be with packing all this junk your father insists we take to Atlanta—”
“Junk?” Mimi inquired with suspicious sweetness.
“That’s what I said and that’s what I mean. Junk! J‑u‑n‑k! I’m going to get rid of some of this worn-out fantastic stuff and get me some nice fresh oak. Mahogany’s too gloomy and funeral-like.”
“I suppose you’d like to throw away that bed you sleep in—over two hundred years old and brought from France—and get a nice, shiny brass one?”