In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. I needn't tell you to tread carefully. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true.
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