Explore "Diverging Roads" by Rose Wilder Lane on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
He came early that Sunday afternoon, but she had been ready, waiting, long before she saw the buggy coming down the road.
She had tried to do her hair in a new way, putting it up in rag curlers the night before, working with it for hours that morning in the stuffy attic bedroom before the wavy mirror, combing it, putting it up, taking it down again, with a nervous fluttering in her wrists. In the end she gave it up. She rolled the long braid into its usual mass at the nape of her neck, and pinned on it a black ribbon bow.