She silently willed him to stop his pacing, to calm down. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. Her body rose up to meet his in a cat-like stretch and she smiled. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. ” “But how?” He was, she thought, a little too insistent. 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.
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