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. Now she drags me to Mass twice a week, and I have to be in the Church Youth Group on Tuesday nights where we study the Bible and play sports games with each other. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again.
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