“Very well,” he said, “I will go. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. They are all at prayer at this hour. She might even forgive him. 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.
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