’ She threw a melting look at Roding. Her sister’s words were true. 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 oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes.
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