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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
86
“‘Tell
your
mother
I
have
flogged
Peter,
and
that
he
richly
deserved
it.’
“I
durst
not
ask
any
more
questions.
When
I
told
my
mother,
she
sat
down,
quite
faint,
for
a
minute.
I
remember,
a
few
days
after,
I
saw
the
poor,
withered
cowslip
flowers
thrown
out
to
the
leaf
heap,
to
decay
and
die
there.
There
was
no
making
of
cowslip
wine
that
year
at
the
rectory—
nor,
indeed,
ever
after.
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