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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. Why was he there? why did the tempter dare to invade that sacred spot! She could not answer her own questions, but vague fearful suspicions passed through her mind. " "Wait a bit, massa," replied the grinning negro,—"lilly bit—see all right fust. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. Dorling said.
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