She sought hastily in her mind for a plausible answer to an obvious question that didn’t come. 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. CHAPTER V At dinner the spinsters invited Ruth to sit at their table, an invitation she accepted gratefully. It seemed an emblem of the ruin he had caused. “I will send you a copy,” Mr. Mr. A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly.
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