" "All right. Yıllar önce, küçük bir köyde yaşayan bir genç olan Ali vardı. His hair was thick and brown and his skin was fair. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. At last he could bear it no longer. 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.
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