This is always how her tirades begin and end: “If Anne were my daughter...” Thank goodness I'm not.
But to get back to the subject of raising children, yesterday a silence fell after Mrs. van D. finished her little speech.
Father then replied, “I think Anne is very well brought up. At least she's learned not to respond to your interminable sermons.
As far as the vegetables are concerned, all I have to say is look who's calling the kettle black.” Mrs. van D. was soundly defeated.
The pot calling the kettle black refers of course to Madame herself,
since she can't tolerate beans or any kind of cabbage in the evening because they give her “gas.”
But I could say the same. What a dope, don't you think?
In any case, let's hope she stops talking about me. It's so funny to see how quickly Mrs. van Daan flushes.
I don't, and it secretly annoys her no end. Yours, Anne
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1942
Dearest Kitty, I had to stop yesterday, though I was nowhere near finished.
I'm dying to tell you about another one of our clashes, but before I do I'd like to say this:
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