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. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. John knew better. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. and Mrs. 8.
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