The Grapes of Wrath
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Excerpt from The Grapes of Wrath: A Tale of North and South
Cornelia Manners felt both the sweetness and hard ness of nature as she lingered in her dooryard, waiting for the morning mail. She was praying, although her blue eyes, shining and tense, were staring down the street. Her hopes, her fears, her love, were embodied in a petition individual, particular, supreme, for her husband was in the army of the Potomac, and her son at Bermuda Hundred with General Butler.
The mail was due at eight, and it was already nine o'clock.
Mrs. Manners stepped out on the sidewalk, shading her eyes with her long, delicate hand. The trees met overhead as far as a distant bend in the street, and the half-grown, translucent leaves cast a greenish-golden, shadowy brilliance between the arch above and the red dish loam underneath. A boy whom she had sent for the mail came running with a telegram. She watched him approach with a sigh of apprehension, and, when he handed her the yellow envelope, turned aside with the ever-present fear of a terrible catastrophe. A hot, choking sensation made her try to ease the narrow col lar pressing against her throat.
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