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. ‘That’s what started the fracas,’ Gerald admitted ruefully, nursing his injured hand as he recalled it. ” “Too much character, and too little sentiment,” he answered. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin.
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