They became aware of the waitress standing over them with book and pencil ready for their bill. 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. " "No," cried the lady, "this room—I recollect—it has a back window. Manning’s handwriting, and opened his letter and read some lines before its import appeared. Then, if you weren’t looking, he’d get five feet closer. It was a clear, lovely, October morning. "Because it's not like you," was her answer.
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