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. Very good. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. Our ideal had fallen. ‘Else she would not have married that ne’er-do-well only because Jarvis proposed him to her. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. “Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire.
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