She spoke slowly. 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. They were loath to admit to the public that the case would be closed in a few years for sheer lack of forensic evidence. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off.
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