Eliza generally took no more notice of her sister's indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring, lounging object had been before her.

One day, however, as she put away her account-book and unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus-- "Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainly never allowed to cumber the earth.

You had no right to be born, for you make no use of life.

Instead of living for, in, and with yourself, as a reasonable being ought, you seek only to fasten your feebleness on some other person's strength: if no one can be found willing to burden her or himself with such a fat, weak, puffy, useless thing, you cry out that you are ill-treated, neglected, miserable.

Then, too, existence for you must be a scene of continual change and excitement, or else the world is a dungeon: you must be admired, you must be courted, you must be flattered--you must have music, dancing, and society--or you languish, you die away.