"They seem SUCH a sign of spring, and so hopeful." He put aside the thorns, and took out the eggs, holding them in the palm of his hand.
"They are quite hot--I think we frightened her off them," he said.
"Ay, poor thing!" said Mrs.Leivers.
Miriam could not help touching the eggs, and his hand which, it seemed to her, cradled them so well.
"Isn't it a strange warmth!" she murmured, to get near him.
"Blood heat," he answered.
She watched him putting them back, his body pressed against the hedge, his arm reaching slowly through the thorns, his hand folded carefully over the eggs.

He was concentrated on the act.

Seeing him so, she loved him; he seemed so simple and sufficient to himself.

And she could not get to him.
After tea she stood hesitating at the bookshelf.

He took "Tartarin de Tarascon".