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There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. The sharp point of the sword at the girl’s throat bit sideways. 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.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 18-09-2024 09:54:31
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