the thorn birds colleen mccullough

frantically to collect the miniature clothes before more damage was
done them, then she began picking among the grass blades where
she thought the pearls might have fallen. Her tears were blinding
her, the grief in her heart new, for until now she had never owned
anything worth grieving for.
Frank threw the shoe hissing into cold water and straightened his
back; it didn't ache these days, so perhaps he was used to smithying.
Not before time, his father would have said, after six months at it.
But Frank knew very well how long it was since his introduction to
the forge and anvil; he had measured the time in hatred and
resentment. Throwing the hammer into its box, he pushed the lank
black hair off his brow with a trembling hand and dragged the old
leather apron from around his neck. His shirt lay on a heap of straw
in the corner; he plodded across to it and stood for a moment staring
at the splintering barn wall as if it did not exist, his black eyes wide
and fixed. He was very small, not above five feet three inches, and
thin still as striplings are, but the bare shoulders and arms had
muscles already knotted from working with the hammer, and the
pale, flawless skin gleamed with sweat. The darkness of his hair and
eyes had a foreign tang, his full-lipped mouth and wide-bridged
nose not the usual family shape, but there was Maori blood on his
mother's side and in him it showed. He was nearly sixteen years old,
where Bob was barely eleven, Jack ten, Hughie nine, Stuart five and
little Meggie three. Then he remembered that today Meggie was
four; it was December 8th. He put on his shirt and left the barn.
The house lay on top of a small hill about one hundred feet higher
than the barn and stables. Like all New Zealand houses, it was