” “There is no one else who has a key to your rooms?” “No one except my maid, who is away in Wiltshire. 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. Their momentary absence seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding appeared to subsist between them. The room was dark and dusty.
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