‘It is so dull, just brown and ordinary. I wish it was bright
yellow, or black and straight.’
Mollie looked round at me; she was brushing her own hair.
‘You poor pretty thing,’ she said, and threw her arms round my
neck. ‘Oh, Helen, I’m so sorry for you, but don’t mind—it will
be all right.’
Then I began to cry, and she comforted me. We never said what
was the matter, but of course we both knew.