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. “Have you anything to ask the witness?” asked the helpful inspector. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again.
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