I had seen Miss Bentley wince, and Miss Macy bite
her lip; but neither of them dared affront the daughter of
Mrs. St. Clair. Miss Lansing was herself of the favoured
class, and had listened lightly. Fashion was power, that was
plain. Was I willing to forego it? was I willing to be one of
those whom fashion passes by as St. Clair had glanced on my
dress — as something not worthy a thought?
I was not happy, those days. Something within me was
struggling for self-assertion. It was new to me; for until
then I had never needed to assert my claims to anything. For
the first time, I was looked down upon, and I did not like it.
I do not quite know why I was made to know this so well. My
dress, if not showy or costly, was certainly without blame in
its neatness and niceness, and perfectly becoming my place as
a school-girl. And I had very little to do at that time with
my schoolmates, and that little was entirely friendly in its
character. I am obliged to think, looking back at it now, that
some rivalry was at work.
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