. Still, her face never betrayed this distraction. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. Pretty! Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights! “You shall tell me your faults,” said Manning. He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed. 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. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good.
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