As the wedding neared, she bought some finer things: a veal roast for supper, a single pearl for the dowry. “That’s not. Give me my pistol and my dagger. 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. In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. She had never experienced anything so disagreeable in her life as the sense of being held helplessly off her feet.
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