His literary instincts began to stir. 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. One of the things that most surprised him in her was her capacity for blind obedience. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper. This was in Texas. I didn't understand then, but I do now.
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