Then, even as they stood there, the room was plunged into darkness. 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. There was a second co-respondent. She continued to fan herself. “The life of a private secretary is positively one of slavery. She had not even endorsed it.
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