On the left the red wet plough-land showed through the doorways between the elm-boles and their branches.

On the right, looking down, they could see the tree-tops of elms growing far beneath them, hear occasionally the gurgle of the river.

Sometimes there below they caught glimpses of the full, soft-sliding Trent, and of water-meadows dotted with small cattle.
"It has scarcely altered since little Kirke White used to come," he said.
But he was watching her throat below the ear, where the flush was fusing into the honey-white, and her mouth that pouted disconsolate.

She stirred against him as she walked, and his body was like a taut string.
Halfway up the big colonnade of elms, where the Grove rose highest above the river, their forward movement faltered to an end.

He led her across to the grass, under the trees at the edge of the path.