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. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. His kisses drew deeper, he started unlacing her dress.
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