Her row of beans stretched in front of her right across the world; every time she looked along it the end seemed farther away.

Every time she raised her hoe the sword of pain slipped under her guard.
The Dog David, impatient of her unnatural taste in occupations, had forsaken her.

She could trace his course by a moving ripple across the potato patch, just as a shark's movement seams the sea.
Forty beans.
Time wears a strangely different guise out of doors.

Under the sun time stands almost still.

Only when every minute is a physical effort do you discover that there really are sixty minutes in an hour, and that one hour is very little nearer to the evening than another.