Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and mind as well as in the feet. “I do hope that I shall be able to make it up to you. Earles, but it is a good one. 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. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word.
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