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. She addresses you as the Flower of the Lotus, as the Resplendent Moonbeam. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. And you know all about that shot. We remember it.
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