She thought:  Supposing Grannie knew all the time that Emmy was unhappy, and took a perverse pleasure in her knowledge?  Supposing she was not really soft and gentle?  She could be soft and gentle to her, because of her children and because of Anthony.  She respected Anthony because he was well-off and efficient and successful, and had supported her ever since Grandpapa had gone bankrupt.  She was proud of Frances because she was Anthony’s wife, who had had three sons and only one daughter.

Grannie behaved as if her grandchildren were her own children, as if she had borne three Sons and only one daughter, instead of four daughters and only one son.  Still, Frances was the vehicle of flesh and blood that carried on her flesh and blood in Michael and Nicholas and John.  She respected Frances.

But Frances could remember a time when she had been unmarried like her sisters, and when Grannie had turned on her, too, that look that was half contempt and half hostility or displeasure.  Grannie had not wanted her to marry Anthony, any more than she would have wanted Louie or Emmeline or Edith to marry anybody, supposing anybody had wanted to marry them.  And Frances and Anthony had defied her.  They had insisted on marrying each other.  Frances knew that if there had been no Anthony, her mother would have despised her in secret, as in secret she despised Emmeline and Edith.  She despised them more than Louie, because, poor things, they wanted, palpably, to be married, whereas Louie didn’t, or said she didn’t.  In her own way, Louie had defied her mother.  She had bought a type-writer and a bicycle with her own earnings, and by partially supporting herself she had defied Anthony, the male benefactor, Louie’s manner intimated that there was nothing Frances had that she wanted.  She had resources in herself, and Frances had none.

Frances persuaded herself that she admired and respected Louie.  She knew that she, Frances, was only admired and respected because she had succeeded where her three sisters had failed.  She was even afraid that, in moments of exasperation, Grannie used her and Anthony and the children to punish Emmy and Edie for their failure.  The least she could do was to stand between them and Grannie.

It was possible that if Grannie had been allowed to ignore them and give her whole attention to Frances or Michael or Baby John, she could have contrived to be soft and gentle for an afternoon.  But neither Louie nor Emmeline, nor even Edith, would consent to be ignored.  They refused to knuckle under, to give in.  Theirs was a perpetual struggle to achieve an individuality in the teeth of circumstances that had denied them any.  Frances acknowledged that they were right, that in the same circumstances she would have done the same.

In their different ways and by different methods they claimed attention.  They claimed it incessantly, Louie, the eldest, by an attitude of assurance and superiority so stiff and hard that it seemed invulnerable; Emmy by sudden jerky enthusiasms, exaltations, intensities; Edie by an exaggerated animation, a false excitement.  Edie would drop from a childish merriment to a childish pathos, when she would call herself “Poor me,” and demand pity for being tired, for missing a train, for cold feet, for hair coming down.