they might call me Mary; and Mother said certainly, she would consent
to Mary, only she should pronounce it Marie. And so it was settled.
Father called me Mary, and Mother called me Marie. And right away
everybody else began to call me Mary Marie. And that's the way it's
been ever since.

Of course, when you stop to think of it, it's sort of queer and funny,
though naturally I didn't think of it, growing up with it as I did,
and always having it, until suddenly one day it occurred to me that
none of the other girls had two names, one for their father, and one
for their mother to call them by. I began to notice other things then,
too. Their fathers and mothers didn't live in rooms at opposite ends
of the house. Their fathers and mothers seemed to like each other, and
to talk together, and to have little jokes and laughs together, and
twinkle with their eyes. That is, most of them did.

And if one wanted to go to walk, or to a party, or to play some game,
the other didn't always look tired and bored, and say, "Oh, very well,
if you like." And then both not do it, whatever it was. That is, I
never saw the other girls' fathers and mothers do that way; and I've
seen quite a lot of them, too, for I've been at the other girls'
houses a lot for a long time. You see, I don't stay at home much, only
when I have to. We don't have a round table with a red cloth and a
lamp on it, and children 'round it playing games and doing things, and
fathers and mothers reading and mending. And it's lots jollier where
they do have them.

Nurse says my father and mother ought never to have been married.
That's what I heard her tell our Bridget one day. So the first chance
I got I asked her why, and what she meant.