She slid the dress off, naked underneath. Ann Veronica said nothing. 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. Some of your sex, I mean. "If Jack would come to my house, I'd contrive to hide him," remarked a buxom dame.
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