"The violinist!" cried Mother, whirling around on me again. (She'd
begun to walk up and down once more.) "You don't mean to say you ever
told your father about _him_!"
"Oh, no, not everything," I explained, trying to show how patient I
was, so she would be patient, too. (But it didn't work.) "I couldn't
tell him everything because everything hadn't happened then. But I
told about his being here, and about the others, too; but, of course,
I said I didn't know which you'd take, and--"
"You told him you didn't know _which I'd take_!" gasped Mother.
Just like that she interrupted, and she looked so shocked. And she
didn't look much better when I explained very carefully what I did
say, even though I assured her over and over again that Father was
interested, very much interested. When I said that, she just muttered,
"Interested, indeed!" under her breath. Then she began to walk again,
up and down, up and down. Then, all of a sudden, she flung herself on
the couch and began to cry and sob as if her heart would break. And
when I tried to comfort her, I only seemed to make it worse, for she
threw her arms around me and cried:
"Oh, my darling, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it is, how
dreadful it is?"
And then is when she began to talk some more about being married, and
_un_married as we were.
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