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. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. “If only her sister is half as pretty, no wonder that she has set the Parisians talking.
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