She donned her gloves. This is a plot entirely abominable, and I scorn to be part of it. She was standing there, smiling at the audience as at her friends. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. 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. “I want to make love for the first time tonight. All I had to do was to piece them together. For a time I must do journalism and work hard.
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