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. Her eye met Miss Stanley’s understandingly, and she was if anything a trifle more affectionate in her greeting to Ann Veronica. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. She responded at once, rapping him on the knuckles with her fan.
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