Your poor father was their best workman.

You are more genteel than your poor father, more English; and you preferred to go into business rather than go on learning Latin, and everybody thought you quite right; but for hard work you're not much good--ah, la, la! Confess that you spat on the window.
"For your poor mother," the ghost of Mame goes on, as she crosses the room with a wooden spoon in her hand, "one must say that she had good taste in dress.

That's no harm, no; but certainly they must have the wherewithal.

She was always a child.

I remember she was twenty-six when they carried her away.