I hate what I have to do to survive. It was an impulse. 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. I wanted John to be proud to be seen with me. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father.
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