"I don't know the actual facts of the case, but without a doubt your friend Shelley was standing on the unfortunate bird's nest all the time he was writing his poem." Sarah Brown, with a deep sigh, began hoeing again.
Fifty beans yet.
She had altogether ceased to find pleasure in the day.

Pain is an extinguisher that can put out the sun.

She had ceased to find pleasure in the singing of the birds, the voice of the pigeon sounded to her no more than an unbeautiful falsetto growl.

She was irritated by the fact that the cuckoo had only one song to sing.

She tried not to hoe in time to that song, but the monotony of it possessed her.