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. I was afraid that I might be called upon as a witness. "Sir!" exclaimed Winifred, rising. —'How so?' says I. There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. Murder had become nothing to her. You can’t possibly understand!” He began a confused explanation, a perplexing contradictory apology for his urgency and wrath.
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