The mare was small, around thirteen hands. Red’s sixteen-and-a-half hands dwarfed her. The mare’s reins were dragging in the mud and grass. Someon... had slipped the bit so she was able to graze. Taking her reins I back trailed her. She must have strayed from the pond while seeking the tender bits of new grass. I wasn’t paying too much attention, but was focusing on the mare’s tracks when I was startled by a loud scream. Looking up with a start gave me an attractive but unexpected sight: a tall,. And, maybe not all that surprisingly, I could still notice how their views and attitudes influenced my thinking. It would probably take a lot longer for me to become completely free of their grip on me.It was easy to deal with the openly declared opinions of my father because I could tell from my own experiences how wrong they were. My mother's influence was more subtle. Her favourite statement was 'What will the people think?' That was her prime concern: not what she thought about something,. More

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