All this torrent of misleading, spurious stuff that pours from the press. Cathy Beck was terribly upset and was on the verge of exploding. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. 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. ’ ‘Gone off?’ repeated Melusine, her wrongs rising up to tear into her chest.
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