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Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. ‘I lived with the Valades for some years. One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. 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. It would make the young wife unhappy. She acted as her mother had taught her to. What a fool I was to separate the two in my mind. The wine was sweetened with cinnamon and cloves and rare edible flowers, which her father had instructed her not to drink excessively of.
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