She said it was like what she read once, that you couldn't really be the same any more than you could put the dress you were wearing back on the shelf in the store, and expect it to turn back into a fine long web of cloth all folded up nice and tidy, as it was in the first place.

And, of course, you couldn't do that--after the cloth was all cut up into a dress! She said more things, too; and after Father's letter came she said still more.

Oh, and I haven't told yet about the letter, have I?
Well, I will now.
As I said at first, Mother brought it in and handed it over to me, saying she guessed it was from Father.

And I could see she was wondering what could be in it.

But I guess she wasn't wondering any more than _I_ was, only I was gladder to get it than she was, I suppose.