"Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. She remained on guard. ’ ‘Don’t call me by name,’ she snapped. 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. You must remember, you've just begun to read; you haven't any comparisons.
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