"Did he do any crossing with 'em?"

"No, missus--leastways not whiles I wur up at the Green."

Joanna stared through the thick red sunset to the horizon. Marvellous
plans were forming in her head--part, they seemed, of the fiery shapes
that the clouds had raised in the west beyond Rye hill. Those clouds
walked forth as flocks of sheep--huge sheep under mountainous fleeces,
the wonder of the Marsh and the glory of Ansdore....

"Socknersh ..."

"Yes, missus."

She hesitated whether she should share with him her new inspiration. It
would be good to hear him say "Surelye, missus" in that admiring, husky
voice. He was the only one of her farm-hands who, she felt, had any
deference towards her--any real loyalty, though he was the last come.

"Socknersh, d'you think your master up at Garlinge would let me hire one
or two rams to cross with my ewes?--I might go up and have a look at
them. I don't know as I've ever seen a Spanish sheep.... Garlinge is up
by Court-at-Street, ain't it?"

"Yes, missus. 'Tis an unaccountable way from here."

"I'd write first. What d'you think of the notion, Socknersh? Don't you
think that a cross between a Spanish sheep and a Kent sheep ud be an
uncommon fine animal?"