“You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question. 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. I married—I married a woman whom I still think one of the most beautiful persons in the world. An old man and a young girl, the one as stubbornly offensive as the other. "Friday!" echoed Mrs. "What is a sing-song girl?" she asked.
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