She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. Going involved two things that all Ann Veronica’s tact had been ineffectual to conceal from her aunt and father. The ruffian caught hold of her hair, and held her fast. 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.
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