It was as if the Devil himself had raped and defiled her mother. The overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. The idea of anything criminal never entered her thoughts. 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. "What of her?" cried the knight. Who is the other?” “What other?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered.
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