‘Do not move, messieurs, or I shall be compelled to blow off your head. 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. She could run away from him, if she wished, as she had run away from her father; she could carry out the original adventure.
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