Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. 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. She kissed him with a closed mouth, not as recklessly as she was tempted to do. Yet, I suppose that at the present moment I am the most envied man in the room.
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