“I should indeed like to go to school,” was the audible conclusion of my musings. Besides, school would be a complete change: it implied a long journey, an entire separation from Gateshead, an entrance into a new life.
She boasted of beautiful paintings of landscapes and flowers by them executed of songs they could sing and pieces they could play, of purses they could net, of French books they could translate till my spirit was moved to emulation as I listened. I scarcely knew what school was Bessie sometimes spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks, wore backboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteel and precise John Reed hated his school, and abused his master: but John Reed’s tastes were no rule for mine, and if Bessie’s accounts of school-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of a family where she had lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhat appalling, her details of certain accomplishments attained by these same ladies were, I thought, equally attractive.
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