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She was beaten. "I don't want to make it hard for you at all." "Then promise me you won't talk about religion." "I won't talk about it to Mrs. Waugh." "Not to anybody." "Not to anybody who wouldn't like it. Unless they make me. Will that do?" "I suppose it'll have to." Mamma held her face up, like a child, to be kissed. The Sutcliffes' house hid in the thick trees at the foot of Greffington Edge.

She would have stretched the way out indefinitely if she could; she would have piled Garthdale Moor on Greffington Edge and Karva on the top of them and put them between Garth and Morfe, so violent was her fear of Steven Rowcliffe. She had no longer any desire to see him or to be seen by him. He had seen her twice too often, and too early and too late.

They were coming down the fields from Greffington Edge in sight of the tennis court. "You oughtn't to like them when they weren't nice to poor Papa. If Mamma doesn't want to know them you oughtn't to." Mark, too. Mark saying what Mamma said. Her heart swelled and tightened. She didn't answer him. "Anyhow," he said, "you oughtn't to go about all over the place with old Sutcliffe."

As it happened you saw sunrise and moonrise best from the platform of Morfe Green. There Greffington Edge breaks and falls away, and lets slip the dawn like a rosy scarf from its shoulder, and sets the moon free of her earth and gives her to the open sky. But, just as the Vicar had spoiled Rowcliffe, so Rowcliffe had spoiled Morfe for Gwenda. Therefore her fear of him was mingled with resentment.

She only said, "Have you seen the thorn-trees on Greffington Edge?" And Ally never answered. She was heading off a stream of jam that was creeping down Stevey's chin to plunge into his neck. "Gwenda's aasskin' yo 'ave yo seen t' thorn-trees on Greffington Edge," said Greatorex. He spoke to Ally as if she were deaf. She made a desperate effort to detach herself from Stevey. "The thorn-trees?

Heron's house they knew what she was going for. "Poor Dorsy!" they said. "Poor Dorsy!" They had something to talk to each other about now. Winter and spring passed. The thorn-trees flowered on Greffington Edge: dim white groves, magically still under the grey, glassy air. May passed and June. The sleek waves of the hay-fields shone with the brushing of the wind, ready for mowing.

It was all over long ago." "I knew," she said, "it was all over." And the solemn white moon came up, the moon that Gwenda loved; it came up over Greffington Edge and looked at them. Mary had announced her engagement the next day. The news had an extraordinary effect on Alice and the Vicar. Mary had come to her father in his study on Friday evening after Prayers.

He wouldn't lower them to look at you. "It was Mrs. Sutcliffe's." "How funny of Mrs. Sutcliffe. She doesn't know me, either." "My dear young lady, you were at school when your father and mother dined at Greffington Hall." He was looking down at her now, and she could feel herself blushing; hot, red waves of shame, rushing up, tingling in the roots of her hair. "Mrs.

The light from the west poured itself in vivid green down the valley below them, broke itself into purple on Karva Hill to the north above Morfe, and was beaten back in subtle blue and violet from the stone rampart of the Edge. Nicholas had been developing, in fancy, the strategic resources of the country. Guns on Renton Moor, guns along Greffington Edge, on Sarrack Moor.

Uncle Victor knew it and he had been afraid. Maurice Jourdain knew it and he had been afraid. Perhaps Lindley Vickers knew it, too. There must be something in heredity. She thought: "If there is I'd rather face it. It's cowardly not to." Lindley Vickers had told her what to read. Herbert Spencer she knew. Haeckel and Ribot were in the London Library Catalogue at Greffington Hall.