I said this in a very pathetic tone.
“What sort of things?” mother asked, rather sharply.
“Oh—things,” I said vaguely. “Life is such a mess, isn’t it?”
“Certainly not. Unless one makes it so.”
“But it is so difficult. Things come up and—and it’s hard to know what to do. The only way, I suppose, is to be true to one’s beleif in one’s self.”
“Take that thing off my head and go out, Hannah,” mother snapped. “Now then, Barbara, what in the world has come over you?”
“Over me? Nothing.”
“You are being a silly child.”
“I am no longer a child, mother. I am seventeen. And at seventeen there are problems. After all, one’s life is one’s own. One must decide——”
“Now, Barbara, I am not going to have any nonsense. You must put that man out of your head.”