More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
“There’s a smell,” said Gwyn: “a kind of scent: I can’t quite – yes: it’s meadowsweet. Funny, that. It must be blowing from the river. The slates feel red hot.”
The morning sun came through the skylights and warmed the oak beams of the roof. They gave off a sweet smell, the essence of their years, wood and corn and milk and all the uses of the room.
“You Welsh are all the same,” said Roger. “Scratch one and they all bleed.”
Gwyn stood in the dark at the foot of the stairs between the dining-room and the sitting-room. He dragged his fist against the wall, trying to hurt himself.
“I should never have come,” said Nancy. “I shouldn’t have come. It’s not right. Never go back, boy. Never go back.”
“What will he do with himself?” “He’ll be a teacher, or something equally wet.”
“I only want you to be yourself,” said Gwyn. “And what’s that?” said Alison. “What you make me?
