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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. CHAPTER XXVI Spurlock went out on his toes, careful lest the bamboo curtain rattle behind him. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. WE don’t think they’re right, but they don’t think we are.
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