His feet swung as he pondered.

The sweets lay strewn on the bench.

She bent over her machine, grinding rhythmically, then stooping to see the stocking that hung beneath, pulled down by the weight.

He watched the handsome crouching of her back, and the apron-strings curling on the floor.
"There is always about you," he said, "a sort of waiting.

Whatever I see you doing, you're not really there: you are waiting--like Penelope when she did her weaving." He could not help a spurt of wickedness.