They wouldn't let me say anything
more. Mother cried, "_Marie_!" in her most I'm-shocked-at-you voice;
and Aunt Hattie cried, "Child--child!" And she seemed shocked, too.
And both of them threw up their hands and looked at each other in the
did-you-ever-hear-such-a-dreadful-thing? way that old folks do when
young folks have displeased them. And them they both went right out of
the room, talking about the unfortunate effect on a child's mind, and
perverted morals, and Mother reproaching Aunt Hattie for talking about
those things before that child (meaning me, of course). Then they got
too far down the hall for me to hear any more. But I don't see why
they needed to have made such a fuss. It wasn't any secret that Mother
got a divorce; and if she got one once, of course she could again.
(That's what I'm going to do when I'm married, if I grow tired of
him--my husband, I mean.) Oh, yes, I know Mrs. Mayhew and her crowd
don't seem to think divorces are very nice; but there needn't anybody
try to make me think that anything my mother does isn't perfectly nice
and all right. And _she_ got a divorce. So, there!
* * * * *
_One week later_.
There hasn't much happened--only one or two things. But maybe I'd
better tell them before I forget it, especially as they have a good
deal to do with the love part of the story.
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