I did think it could be done. 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. “You see,” he said, “you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. ” “Wait? For what?” She replied.
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