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They
milked
entirely
in
the
meads
for
coolness
and
convenience
,
without
driving
in
the
cows
.
During
the
day
the
animals
obsequiously
followed
the
shadow
of
the
smallest
tree
as
it
moved
round
the
stem
with
the
diurnal
roll
;
and
when
the
milkers
came
they
could
hardly
stand
still
for
the
flies
.
On
one
of
these
afternoons
four
or
five
unmilked
cows
chanced
to
stand
apart
from
the
general
herd
,
behind
the
corner
of
a
hedge
,
among
them
being
Dumpling
and
Old
Pretty
,
who
loved
Tess
’
s
hands
above
those
of
any
other
maid
.
When
she
rose
from
her
stool
under
a
finished
cow
Angel
Clare
,
who
had
been
observing
her
for
some
time
,
asked
her
if
she
would
take
the
aforesaid
creatures
next
.
She
silently
assented
,
and
with
her
stool
at
arm
’
s
length
,
and
the
pail
against
her
knee
,
went
round
to
where
they
stood
.
Soon
the
sound
of
Old
Pretty
’
s
milk
fizzing
into
the
pail
came
through
the
hedge
,
and
then
Angel
felt
inclined
to
go
round
the
corner
also
,
to
finish
off
a
hard
-
yielding
milcher
who
had
strayed
there
,
he
being
now
as
capable
of
this
as
the
dairyman
himself
.
All
the
men
,
and
some
of
the
women
,
when
milking
,
dug
their
foreheads
into
the
cows
and
gazed
into
the
pail
.
But
a
few
—
mainly
the
younger
ones
—
rested
their
heads
sideways
.
This
was
Tess
Durbeyfield
’
s
habit
,
her
temple
pressing
the
milcher
’
s
flank
,
her
eyes
fixed
on
the
far
end
of
the
meadow
with
the
quiet
of
one
lost
in
meditation
.
She
was
milking
Old
Pretty
thus
,
and
the
sun
chancing
to
be
on
the
milking
-
side
it
shone
flat
upon
her
pink
-
gowned
form
and
her
white
curtain
-
bonnet
,
and
upon
her
profile
,
rendering
it
keen
as
a
cameo
cut
from
the
dun
background
of
the
cow
.
She
did
not
know
that
Clare
had
followed
her
round
,
and
that
he
sat
under
his
cow
watching
her
.
The
stillness
of
her
head
and
features
was
remarkable
:
she
might
have
been
in
a
trance
,
her
eyes
open
,
yet
unseeing
.
Nothing
in
the
picture
moved
but
Old
Pretty
’
s
tail
and
Tess
’
s
pink
hands
,
the
latter
so
gently
as
to
be
a
rhythmic
pulsation
only
,
as
if
they
were
obeying
a
reflex
stimulus
,
like
a
beating
heart
.
How
very
lovable
her
face
was
to
him
.
yet
there
was
nothing
ethereal
about
it
;
all
was
real
vitality
,
real
warmth
,
real
incarnation
.
And
it
was
in
her
mouth
that
this
culminated
.
Eyes
almost
as
deep
and
speaking
he
had
seen
before
,
and
cheeks
perhaps
as
fair
;
brows
as
arched
,
a
chin
and
throat
almost
as
shapely
;
her
mouth
he
had
seen
nothing
to
equal
on
the
face
of
the
earth
.
To
a
young
man
with
the
least
fire
in
him
that
little
upward
lift
in
the
middle
of
her
red
top
lip
was
distracting
,
infatuating
,
maddening
.
He
had
never
before
seen
a
woman
’
s
lips
and
teeth
which
forced
upon
his
mind
with
such
persistent
iteration
the
old
Elizabethan
simile
of
roses
filled
with
snow
.
Perfect
,
he
,
as
a
lover
,
might
have
called
them
off
-
hand
.
But
no
—
they
were
not
perfect
.
And
it
was
the
touch
of
the
imperfect
upon
the
would
-
be
perfect
that
gave
the
sweetness
,
because
it
was
that
which
gave
the
humanity
.
Clare
had
studied
the
curves
of
those
lips
so
many
times
that
he
could
reproduce
them
mentally
with
ease
:
and
now
,
as
they
again
confronted
him
,
clothed
with
colour
and
life
,
they
sent
an
AURA
over
his
flesh
,
a
breeze
through
his
nerves
,
which
wellnigh
produced
a
qualm
;
and
actually
produced
,
by
some
mysterious
physiological
process
,
a
prosaic
sneeze
.
She
then
became
conscious
that
he
was
observing
her
;
but
she
would
not
show
it
by
any
change
of
position
,
though
the
curious
dream
-
like
fixity
disappeared
,
and
a
close
eye
might
easily
have
discerned
that
the
rosiness
of
her
face
deepened
,
and
then
faded
till
only
a
tinge
of
it
was
left
.
The
influence
that
had
passed
into
Clare
like
an
excitation
from
the
sky
did
not
die
down
.
Resolutions
,
reticences
,
prudences
,
fears
,
fell
back
like
a
defeated
battalion
.
He
jumped
up
from
his
seat
,
and
,
leaving
his
pail
to
be
kicked
over
if
the
milcher
had
such
a
mind
,
went
quickly
towards
the
desire
of
his
eyes
,
and
,
kneeling
down
beside
her
,
clasped
her
in
his
arms
.
