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’m still inside you. Tell him the truth, Annabel. “Leave them!” He yelled. 47, straightening her hat and waiting for her luggage to appear. Supposing he too wanted love and his arms were as empty as hers? Some living thing that depended upon her. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home.
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