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. She got up, as she had been told to do, at his appearance, and he amazed her by sitting down, according to custom, on her stool. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. You’ve placed me in a very exceptional position, Miss Stanley. I want my freedom.
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