She glanced at him. 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. If you met her you would, I am certain, think her as fine as I do. “I suppose a girl MUST be underpaid and sweated,” said Ann Veronica. Miss Garvice repeated again, and almost in the same words she used at every discussion, her contribution to the great question. You are captain of your soul; don't forget your Henley.
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