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. “Don’t know me, eh? I like that. Well, I don't think they'll any of 'em nab him, that's one comfort. Then with an indescribable relief her feet were on the pavement, and she was being urged along by two policemen, who were gripping her wrists in an irresistible expert manner. She put her hand in his to be squeezed. She put her head out of the window. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. One who—who—tres. I don’t idealize you. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. "Take me, then," replied the widow. It has been proved.
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