Before a month has elapsed, your mother will be mine. 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. “Not at all. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict.
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