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Rachel Field

Rachel Field Books

Novelist

Branches Green

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“At such tense moments it often happens, as it happened to me then, that some insignificant object will become forever linked to our extremity. We must recall the exact shape of a leaf whose shadow fell across the blind of a sickroom; the scroll on the handle of a spoon out fingers gripped in the numbness of despair, the lace that edged the handkerchief we pressed to our lips to hide their trembling.”

“It's been so happy for us all to have you here, and I've tried not to think of - of the accounting that you and I, too, must give to the Duchesse. I cannot help feeling that you - that we shall pay dearly because you came with us and left her behind." "I always pay." He spoke evenly, but his brows drew together in a frown. "Sometimes I pay most for what I never had. I've been happy these few days, and at least that's something on my side of the ledger.”

“Only children, I thought, can play and talk together without this self-imposed constraint. And even children’s eyes are quick to note the difference between a patched sweater and a squirrel muff. They recognize the outward symbols and are more wary than we guess. I found myself wondering when I had first been made aware of the invisible barriers that are so much more formidable than those of brick and stone and barbed wire.”

“One grew used to years, like garments. At least one knew where the holes and patched places were; one had learned not to strain threadbare folds past endurance. A new year felt stiff and semi-fitted as one tried to move in it without self-consciousness. It was like dresses that used to be made to allow for growth, too sturdy and voluminous and reaching to boot tops. Only time and hard use would accomplish the fitting, and I did not look forward to that inevitable process.”

“Something told the wild geese It was time to go. Though the fields lay golden Something whispered, "snow." Leaves were green and stirring, Berries, luster-glossed, But beneath warm feathers Something cautioned, "frost." All the sagging orchards Steamed with amber spice But each wild breast stiffened At remembered ice. Something told the wild geese It was time to fly- Summer sun was on their wings, Winter in their cry.”