It's idiotic nonsense. When you're a kiddie you hear all
sorts of family talk about family characteristics; it becomes a sort of
legend and you live up to it unconsciously. You see your parents doing
things, and because you're with your parents a great deal just at the
time when you're soft, like a jelly just poured into a mould, you get
like your parents. And then it's too late--too late to alter, I mean,
unless you take a fork and beat the jelly up again, or warm it on the
fire and make it melt. I've read a lot about this, and I believe it's at
the bottom of half the morbid stuff people write and talk about
hereditary drunkards and criminals...."
"But statistics," began Louis.
"The worst of statistics is that people only quote the statistics that
will prove their argument. They don't quote those for the other side. If
drunkards' children become drunkards it's probably because their lives
are so desperately miserable that they take the most obvious way of
drowning the misery. Anyway, Louis--"
"Lord, you are getting dictatorial, Marcella," he said.
"Yes. I know. I mean to be, on this subject. I'll tell you this much, my
dear. If you tell this child of ours that you're a drunkard, I'll shake
the life out of you and then run away with him where he'll never see you
again. And if he sees you drunk--! But he won't.
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