She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. 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. "Holloa—what's that?" cried Austin, starting up.
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