Henry Handel Richardson

“ Gurley, familiarity had never been known to breed contempt. She was possessed of what was little short of genius, for ruling through fear; and no more fitting overseer could have been set at the head of these half-hundred girls, of all ages and degrees: gentle and common; ruly and unruly, children hardly out of the nursery, and girls well over the brink of womanhood, whose ripe, bursting forms told their own tale ”

“ Gurley chatting to a governess had gone thoughtlessly up to her and tapped her on the arm.
“Mrs. Gurley, please, do you think it would matter very much if I only took half this verb today? It’s COUDRE, and means to sew, you know, and it’s SO hard. I don’t seem to be able to get it into my head.”
Before the words were out of her mouth, she saw that she had made a terrible mistake. Mrs. Gurley’s face, which had been smiling, froze to stone. She looked at her arm as though the hand had bitten her, and Laura’s sudden shrinking did not move her, to whom seldom anyone addressed a word unbidden. ”

“ Inez looked round to see that Bertha was not within hearing, then put her lips to Laura’s ear.
“She drinks.”
Laura gaped incredulous at the girl, her young eyes full of horror. From actual experience, she hardly knew what drunkenness meant; she had hitherto associated it only with the lowest class of Irish agricultural labourer, or with those dreadful white women who lived, by choice, in Chinese Camps. That there could exist a mother who drank was unthinkable . . . outside the bounds of nature. ”