”When I was a girl, we would work in the fields, and walk for miles. That was in the fens. Before I came out. Flat country, certainly but it does not let you eat it up all that easy.” She laughed. “We would skate, too, all of us girls and boys; we was nine in the family. We would skate across the flooded country during a hard winter, miles and miles, everything so brittle. The twigs on the hedges looked as if you could have broken them off like glass.”
Her eyes were suddenly brightened by what she was telling. Solidity in herself seemed to give to the glass twigs some mysterious, desirable, unattainable property of their own.
—Riders in the Chariot, by Patrick White
It’s an excellent radio theater production of a whodunit. Maybe, best for lovers of bellringing.