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. “If I thought for a moment that there was any chance of a relapse, I should stop here and tell him the truth even now. Still, I suppose Melusine can always sell the house. I know you’re young but I think I, no, I know that I love you. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. It did seem germane to the matter that so many of the people “in the van” were plain people, or faded people, or tired-looking people. . ’ She spread her hands.
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