Mrs.Durrant talked energetically; Mrs.Pascoe listened submissively.

The boy Curnow knew that Mrs.Durrant was saying that it is perfectly simple; you mix the powder in a gallon of water; "I have done it with my own hands in my own garden," Mrs.Durrant was saying.
"You won't have a potato left--you won't have a potato left," Mrs.
Durrant was saying in her emphatic voice as they reached the gate.

The boy Curnow became as immobile as stone.
Mrs.Durrant took the reins in her hands and settled herself on the driver's seat.
"Take care of that leg, or I shall send the doctor to you," she called back over her shoulder; touched the ponies; and the carriage started forward.

The boy Curnow had only just time to swing himself up by the toe of his boot.

The boy Curnow, sitting in the middle of the back seat, looked at his aunt.
Mrs.Pascoe stood at the gate looking after them; stood at the gate till the trap was round the corner; stood at the gate, looking now to the right, now to the left; then went back to her cottage.
Soon the ponies attacked the swelling moor road with striving forelegs.
Mrs.Durrant let the reins fall slackly, and leant backwards.