1 Already the plowing was nearly finished, and the bloody glory of the sunset colored the fresh-cut furrows of red Georgia clay to even redder hues.
2 For here were no long, straight furrows, such as could be seen in the yellow clay fields of the flat middle Georgia country or in the lush black earth of the coastal plantations.
3 Suellen and Carreen were clay in her powerful hands and harkened respectfully to her warning.
4 And the lazy streams were redder now than ever Georgia clay could make them.
5 She was no longer plastic clay, yielding imprint to each new experience.
6 The clay had hardened, some time in this indeterminate day which had lasted a thousand years.
7 "'Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay,'" said Melanie with a sad smile.
8 He looked at her for a long space and then, leaning, scooped up a small wad of red clay from the ground.
9 He took her limp hand and pressed the damp clay into it and closed her fingers about it.
10 The clay was cold in her hand and she looked at it again.
11 At first, the words meant nothing and the clay was only red clay.
12 She was still clutching the ball of red clay when she went up the front steps.
13 She squeezed the clay so tightly it ran out from her clenched fist and she said over and over, parrot-like: "I've still got this."
14 The squatty log chicken house was clay daubed against rats, weasels and clean with whitewash, and so was the log stable.
15 Pork had dug the grave the night before, close by Ellen's grave, and he stood, spade in hand, behind the moist red clay he was soon to shovel back in place.