“Oh, you know,” she said. Anna herself opened the hall door. Larry Beck did his best to the flares of her temper from rising. 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. I find you an impenetrable enigma.
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