The story of a free-spirited Shropshire lass, loved by a squire and minister, and the choices she must make.
queen in a regalia of flowers, eating the piece of bread and honey that made her dinner, and covering her face with lily pollen.
Now, there were no flowers in the garden; only the yew-tree by the gate that hung her waxen blossom along the undersides of the branches. Hazel hated the look of the frozen garden; she had an almost unnaturally intense craving for everything rich, vivid, and vital. She was all these things herself, as she communed with Foxy before starting. She had wound her hair round her head in a large plait and her old black hat made the colour richer.
'You'm nigh on thirty miles to go there and back, unless you get a lift,' said Abel.
'A lift? I dunna want never no lifts!' said Hazel scornfully.
'You'm as good a walker as John of No Man's Parish,' replied Abel, 'and he walks for ever, so they do say.'
As Hazel set forth in the sharp, fresh morning, the Callow shone with radiant brown and silver, and no presage moved within it of the snow that would hurtle upo