On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. She stole her glances sideways like the rest of the women. He looked the boy over with interest. 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. Had this not been the case, he must have refused even to see his Frenchified granddaughter. He pressed the long shapely hand warmly in his. Rather a magniloquent term, perhaps, but what else am I to say? One of these is that the most absolutely selfish thing in the world is to give way to depression, to think of one’s troubles at all except of how to overcome them. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. Bounding the corner of a garden wall, he came upon his former place of imprisonment. “Sorry to be so terribly rude, Martin. .
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