But there was a face pressed to the glass. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother. 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. In no way could he be said to contribute to the gaiety of the little party.
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