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 go back about once a year. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. “Are you with us?” said the tired woman. Wood, meantime, had not remained idle.
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