That would come later. Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood. “Of course it is okay!” Cathy’s voice rose in volume and in pitch. Her voice was weak and flat. 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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