He was a handsome man, and Lucy could see the strong resemblance of John to him. 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. “Idiots!” she said, when she heard this pandemonium, and with particular reference to this young lady with the throaty contralto next door. But you! Ruth is your lawful wife. “You, anyhow, don’t deserve it,” he said. “Don’t be too sure of that,” she answered enigmatically.
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