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” He replied solemnly, looking straight into her eyes. 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 don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. If she kept on, would she make it out of the door? Then what? He could come after her before she could reach the secret passage.
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