She thought that he was going to kiss her and did not care greatly if he did.
But he checked himself in time, and instead of pressing his lips upon hers, only kissed her hands, first one and then the other, for quite a long while: nor did she attempt to deny him, perhaps because a wild impulse took possession of her to kiss his in answer.

Yes, his hands, or his lips, or even his coat or anything about him.

Oh! it made her very angry, but there it was, for something rushed up in her which she had never felt before, something mad and wild and sweet.
She wrenched herself away at last and began to scold him again.
"What have you been doing all these years?
Why did you never write to me ?" "Because I was too proud, as you never wrote to me." "Too proud! Pride will be your ruin; it goes before every sort of fall.
Besides, I did write to you.

I can show you a copy of the letter, if I haven't torn it up." "I never got it; did you post it yourself ?" "Yes, that is I took it to the Abbey House and left it to be addressed there." "Oh! then perhaps it is there still," and he looked at her.
"Nonsense, no one could have been so mean, not even----" He shrugged his shoulders, a trick he had learned abroad, then said: "Well, it doesn't matter now, does it, Isobel ?" "Yes, it matters a lot.

Years of misunderstanding and doubt and loss, when life is so short.