“I do,” she answered. “By some I am called the Willow-weaver.”
“You weave fast.”
“Naturally. I have had much practice.”
She twisted a bent twig as she spoke.
“That twig is crooked,” said Ralph. His behaviour was irrational, but a sudden need of hearing human speech had come upon him; and, besides, he liked her voice, which was soothing, soft and deep, like organ notes in the distance.
“It is so,” she replied.
“Why don’t you throw it away?”
“I throw nothing away. I suffer no waste. I put all my willow twigs to use—crooked or straight.”
“But the crooked ones spoil the shape of your basket.”
“It is true. They spoil the shape of the basket. I shall put a straight one by the side of the crooked. That balances it a little.”