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 went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. ‘That’s better,’ said Gerald, and let her go. That register would be easy to get at; comforting thought. So far the thing was acceptable enough.
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