“You’re not too good for your mother’s bowling alley,” said Margaret to Minna, knowing that she was. Leviticus knew it, too. Bertha didn’t know it, and wasn’t. You’re never too good for the things you love, no matter how low. But Minna was better than Truitt’s. He was, too. They had to be better, and this was the thing that Bertha never understood. She could be low, and not care, she could oddball around town all she liked. They had to be better. They had to keep their eccentricities to themselves.
