Explore "The Lane that had no Turning, Volume 3" by Gilbert Parker on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The tale was told to me in the little valley beneath Dalgrothe Mountain one September morning. Far and near one could see the swinging of the flail, and the laughter of a ripe summer was upon the land. There was a little Calvary down by the riverside, where the flax-beaters used to say their prayers in the intervals of their work; and it was just at the foot of this that Angele Rouvier, having finished her prayer, put her rosary in her pocket, wiped her eyes with the hem of her petticoat, and said to me:
"Ah, dat poor Mathurin, I wipe my tears for him!"