Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. Habits and tastes are no longer the same. Manning loved her presented itself to her bloodlessly, stilled from any imaginative quiver or thrill of passion or disgust. 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 daresay that is one of the names of the nuns in your convent. The Leads.
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