She had come to the end of her resources. 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. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket.
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