On the trail, with the arch of the sky above and the illimitable earth
around her, she was throwing back to her mother's people.
Susan herself had no interest in these atavistic developments. She was
a healthy, uncomplicated, young animal, and she was enjoying herself as
she had never done before. Behind her the life of Rochester stretched
in a tranquil perspective of dull and colorless routine. Nothing had
ever happened. From her seventh year her father and Daddy John had
brought her up, made her the pet and plaything of their lonely lives,
rejoiced in her, wondered at her, delighted in the imperious ways she
had learned from their spoiling. There had been teachers to educate
her, but it was an open secret that they had not taught her much.
Susan did not take kindly to books. No one had ever been able to teach
her how to cipher and learning the piano had been a fruitless effort
abandoned in her fifteenth year. It is only just to her to say that
she had her little talents. She was an excellent housekeeper, and she
could cook certain dishes better, the doctor said, than the chefs in
some of the fine restaurants in New York City.
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