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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. If our young person hadn’t had the nurse part cut out, eh? She might have known more and done less. “For I know that you love Ennison. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred.
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