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. “Why should it matter?” he said. You see, we travelled second class, and we are in the least known quarter of Paris. You would find things to laugh at even in Artemus Ward.
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