I told them our divorce was perfectly all right and genteel and respectable; that Nurse Sarah said it was.

Ours was going to be incompatibility, for one thing, which meant that you got on each other's nerves, and just naturally didn't care for each other any more.

But they only laughed, and said even more disagreeable things, so that I didn't want to go to school any longer, and I told Mother so, and the reason, too, of course.
But, dear me, I wished right off that I hadn't.

I supposed she was going to be superb and haughty and disdainful, and say things that would put those girls where they belonged.

But, my stars! How could I know that she was going to burst into such a storm of sobs and clasp me to her bosom, and get my face all wet and cry out: "Oh, my baby, my baby--to think I have subjected you to this, my baby, my baby!" And I couldn't say a thing to comfort her, or make her stop, even when I told her over and over again that I wasn't a baby.