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. The executioner shook his head. “I was surprised, I admit,” he said. The terror faded from her eyes. Don’t go back into Victorian respectability and pretend you don’t know and you can’t think and all the rest of it.
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