She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. 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. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission.
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