Dear Madonna is the survival of a period when a woman always expected
some man to face any crisis for her. All I could do was to say,
resignedly:
"I'll give him the address." And when she got up I went to the gate
with her. She was as dear as she could be; I just loved her until she
happened to say:
"When I came in I thought you might be lying down, for I looked up and
saw the shades were pulled down in your room, as they are now."
"Oh," I said, "I don't suppose anybody has been back in the room since
we got up." And I was downright scared, she looked at me so strangely
and began to tremble all over. "What IS the matter?" I cried. "Do come
into the house again!" But she only grasped my arm and said, tragically:
"Lorraine, it isn't POSSIBLE that you haven't made your bed at four
o'clock in the afternoon!" And I answered:
"Oh, I always make it up before I sleep in it." And then I knew that
I'd said just the wrong thing. What difference it can make to ANYBODY
what time you make your OWN bed I can't see! She tried to make me
promise I'd always make it up before ten o'clock in the morning. Why, I
wouldn't even promise to always feel fond of Peter at ten o'clock in
the morning! I NEVER have anything to do with the family without always
feeling on edge afterward. Why, when she was so sweet and strong about
Peggy and Aunt Elizabeth and all the rest of it, WHY should she get
upset about such a trifle?
I stood there by the gate just glowering as she went off.
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