She was powerless to move from her chair. She wanted to think. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. 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. Published by Elizabeth Bailey 2012 www.
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