Fanny
(Little Dorrit)
It's all very well for Amy. Those quiet little things can make their way anywhere. In a convent in the Alps or a ballroom in Venice, she finds a place for herself—usually among whoever is poorest, or frailest, or most elderly, or otherwise least fit for company.
Oh, she means well, in her own way. I don't say she doesn't. But it is clear, and always has been clear, that Amy is not to be relied upon to advance the family credit. I doubt she ever gives it a moment's thought, when not forced to—and when I have forced her to, she has only looked timid and nervous, and most likely has put the subject right out of her mind the instant I have finished speaking.
Fortunately, the family is not entirely without recourse. I do my duty in that respect, and will continue to do it. And I fancy I may be satisfied with my efforts so far. If Amy fails to appreciate that, and contents herself in obscure corners with impossible people—well, let her be content for now. She is a dear little thing, after all, and may as well find contentment while she can.