She had her blue apron tightly rolled about both hands.
Deborah Thayer, on her way to the door, looked at her as if she had been a part of the wall, but suddenly she stopped and cast a glance at Cephas.

"What be you makin' ?" she asked, with a kind of scorn at him, and scorn at her own curiosity.
Cephas did not reply, but he looked ugly as he slapped another piece of dough heavily upon a plate.
Deborah, as if against her will, moved closer to the table and bent over the pan of sorrel.

She smelled of it; then she took a leaf and tasted it, cautiously.

She made a wry face.

"It's sorrel," said she.
"You're makin' pies out of sorrel.