She had offered to walk, but Pamela knew she would not feel comfortable about her child until she had personally confided her to the care of the little pink woman who chose to be called `` Auntie ''.

She would return this symbol to the mountain, as one pours seed back into the soil every Spring or as ancient fertility cults demand annual human sacrifice.

She remembered little of her previous journey there with Grace, and she could but hope that her dedication to her mission would enable her to accomplish it.

She did not pause to consider what she would do if her plan should fail ; ;

She was sure she would reach the pool by climbing, and she clung to that belief despite the increasing number of obstacles.

She had the feeling that, under the mouldering leaves, there would be the bodies of dead animals, quietly decaying and giving their soil back to the mountain.

She could not scream, for even if a sound could take shape within her parched mouth, who would hear, who would listen??

She had to move in some direction -- any direction that would take her away from this evil place.

She began it deliberately, so that none of her words would be lost on him.

She would look at Jack, with that hidden something in her eyes, and Jack would see the Woman and become breathless and a little sick.

She was certain now that it would be no harder to bear her child here in such pleasant surroundings than at home in the big white house in Haverhill.

She would often go up on the roof to see the attendant take down the flag in the evening.

She gave me the names of some people who would surely help pay for the flowers and might even march up to the monument with me.

She would hover over him and, looking like her brother, anxiously watch the progress of Scotty's fork or spoon.

She was the only kind of Negro Laura Andrus would want around: independent, unservile, probably charging double what ordinary maids did for housework -- and doubly efficient.

She would not accept the death of such a little child.

She stood there, a large old woman, smiling at the things she would say to him in the morning, this big foolish baby of a son.

She and her husband had formerly lived in New York, where she had many friends, but Mr. Flannagan thought the country would be safer in case of war.

She would rather live in danger than die of loneliness and boredom.

She would have said triumph.

She was personally sloppy, and when she had colds would blow her nose in the same handkerchief all day and keep it, soaking wet, dangling from her waist, and when she gardened she would eat dinner with dirt on her calves.

She had begun to turn back toward the house, but his look caught her and she stood still, waiting there for what his expression indicated would be a serious word of farewell.

She rubbed her eyes and stretched, then sat up, her hands going to her hair.

She helped him with the dishes, then he brought more water in from the spring before it got dark.

She was carrying a quirt, and she started to raise it, then let it fall again and dangle from her wrist.

She saw it then, the distant derrick of the wildcat -- a test well in unexplored country.

She stood up, pulled the coat from her shoulders and started to slide it off, then let out a high-pitched scream and I let out a low-pitched, wobbling sound like a muffler blowing out.

`` She didn't really say '' -- She glanced away at the floor, then swooped gracefully and picked up one of Scotty's slippers.

She just about made me carry her upstairs and then she clung to me and wouldn't let me go.

She had surprised Hans like she had surprised me when she said she'd go, and then she surprised him again when she came back so quick like she must have, because when I came in with the snow she was there with a bottle with three white feathers on its label and Hans was holding it angrily by the throat.

She went into the living room and turned on three lamps, then back into the kitchen where she turned on the ceiling light and the switch that lit the floods on the barn, illuminating the driveway.

She then went over them thoroughly giving each a strenuous test in showmanship.

She was then trained on the trot until December 29, hitched to a breaking cart once around the half-mile track and hoppled again.

She patronized Greenwich Village artists for awhile, then put some money into a Broadway show which was successful ( terrible, but successful ).

She then described her experience as one in which she first had difficulty accepting for herself a state of being in which she relinquished control.

She retreated by leaving the room when we suggested that our meeting might well terminate right then and there.

She was the John Harvey, one of those Atlantic sea-horses that had sailed to Bari to bring beans, bombs, and bullets to the U.S. Fifteenth Air Force, to Field Marshal Montgomery's Eighth Army then racing up the calf of the boot of Italy in that early December of 1943.

She was Mary Lou Brew then, wide-eyed, but not naive.

She worked as a domestic, first in Newport for a year, and then in South Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, for another year.

She had assumed before then that one day he would ask her to marry him.

She was thirty-one years old then.

She walked restlessly across the room, then back to the windows.

She smoothed the skirt, sat down, then stood up and went back to the windows.

She made a face at him and then she laughed.

She threw back a cushion over one of the seats, unlocked a padlock on the chest beneath it, then presently straightened, holding a long knife and a wicked looking spear gun in her hand.

She took postgraduate work at the University of Grenoble in France and then returned to London to work on market research with an advertising firm.