Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. Parbleu, but she was a fool. “I am afraid,” he said gravely, “that your sister has been a little indiscreet. 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. Made me fetch up Trodger and a couple more men, and together we searched his luggage and got hold of every single paper the man possessed. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism.
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