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. Her heels made contact with Rhea’s knees and hobbled her with a crack. John’s father added cheerfully, “So, do you play any violin?” She balked at the stereotype, but admitted, “Yes, I play violin. “Do you mean in looks?” she asked. Her eyes noted it mercilessly. She ducked behind a pile of unused drywall. Startled by the cry, as may be supposed, the attention of the whole congregation was drawn towards the quarter whence it proceeded. “Are you with us?” said the tired woman.
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