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 were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. ” “That’s the comfort of you.
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