The woman I expected to take on the day-to-day management of the mission complex comes to me every morning with a new list of problems. She complains about the accommodation, the food, the way our teachers dress, how I discipline the children, the cleanliness of the house, and our entertainments. Nothing satisfies her.
“Miss Pigot, we must speak,” she says. “Things can’t continue as they are. I came here with the purest of motives to assist in every way I can. But the household is poorly managed. There’s no order to anything. The Ladies’ Association will be appalled to learn of conditions here.”
I look at her pale, narrow face. The lace collar at her throat. She would have the servants spend the day sweeping out the dust and whitewashing the walls. We don’t have a military household like her sister.
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