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. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. The lips of the mask twisted upward into a smile. “John, you were never bound to me, you don’t owe me anything.
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