‘Ah, well, we’ll check the back and then go home. Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently. The clergyman, meanwhile, proceeded with the service, while the coffin was deposited at the brink of the grave. 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. Man, if you tell her you love her, and later they took you away to prison, who would sit at the prison gate until your term was up? Ruth.
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