"Rather a devil," groaned her son, "to have done this. He’ll do. Wood, you shan't lord it over me, I can promise you. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. 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. Kneebone invariably takes part with me, when any trifling misunderstanding arises between us.
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