"But what does he mean by calling you a wanton? —you, my wife?" Enschede's hand slipped from his daughter's shoulder. Foolish compliments were tossed about like confetti. 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. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. She grounded me for three weeks! I couldn’t even talk on the phone! She still has issues with Missy. The next minute, I contrived, without either of 'em perceiving me, to convey it into my own pocket. "My sight is failing me.
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