We felt like thieves. 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. The Oriental has no equivalent. ‘And for you, monsieur le major, it will be well if you do not make me a shock like this again.
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