" "Would you have had him spare my mother's murderer?" cried Winifred. What you said wanted saying. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. 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. He hated the taste of it. What was it she had expected? Surely her moods were getting a little out of hand.
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