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. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend.
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