The true creative mind is always returning to battle; defeats are only temporary setbacks. 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. Only she is not Madame Valade at all. She thought of them as fools, but had been sorry to see them go. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. She let out a wail.
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