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. Eggs were procured for her, and she sat out the subsequent emotions and eloquence with the dignity becoming an injured lady of good family. Her mind left her. It’s my choice, Lucy. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. She had not been sufficiently prompted in relation to the ways of caravansaries; but her mind had been alert and receptive. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable.
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