there's something in it. Poor Francie! she was born at a disadvantage,
with that fascinating face of hers set on the foundation of so light a
character. She was too pretty, to start with. The pretty people get so
spoiled, so filled with their own conceit, that they grow up expecting
a world made on purpose for them. They grab right and left, if the
plums don't fall into their mouths directly they open them, because it
gets to be a sort of matter of course that they should have everything,
and do exactly as they like."

"And the plain ones--they are born at a worse disadvantage still."

"No, they are not. Look at Rose. Francie, with her gilded wretchedness,
thinks Rosie's lot quite despicable; but I can tell you, Molly, she is
the most utterly comfortable and contented little soul on the face of
this earth. She would not change places with a queen." "But Rose is not
plain. Rose is the happy medium. And THEY are the lucky ones--the
inconspicuous people--the every-day sort--"

"What's luck?" Deb vaguely moralised. "I suppose we make our luck. It
doesn't depend on our faces, but on ourselves."

"Ah, no!" Mrs Goldsworthy received the well-worn platitude with a
laugh. "We don't make anything--we are made. It is just a dance of
marionettes, Debbie. Poor puppets of flesh and blood, treated as if
they were just wood and nails and glue! Who set us up to make a game of
us like this? Who DOES pull the strings, Debbie? It is a
mystery to me."

Then Deb waited for what was coming next.