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CHAPTER III. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. 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. ‘But I don’t trust you an inch. ” “I thought I explained—” “Come home!” Ann Veronica shrugged her shoulders. “Mr.
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