Some looked real worried 'cause I'd asked it, and one got mad.
(That was the dressmaker.

I found out afterward that she'd _had_ a divorce already, so probably she thought I asked the question on purpose to plague her.) But nobody would answer me--really answer me sensibly, so I'd know what it meant; and 'most everybody said, "Run away, child," or "You shouldn't talk of such things," or, "Wait, my dear, till you're older"; and all that.
Oh, how I hate such talk when I really want to know something! How do they expect us to get our education if they won't answer our questions?
I don't know which made me angriest--I mean angrier.

(I'm speaking of two things, so I must, I suppose.

I hate grammar!) To have them talk like that--not answer me, you know--or have them do as Mr.Jones, the storekeeper, did, and the men there with him.
It was one day when I was in there buying some white thread for Nurse Sarah, and it was a little while after I had asked the doctor if a divorce was a disease.

Somebody had said something that made me think you could buy divorces, and I suddenly determined to ask Mr.Jones if he had them for sale.