Then he went to the scullery, wetted his hands, scooped the last white dough out of the punchion, and dropped it in a baking-tin.

Miriam was still bent over her painted cloth.

He stood rubbing the bits of dough from his hands.
"You do like it ?" he asked.
She looked up at him, with her dark eyes one flame of love.

He laughed uncomfortably.

Then he began to talk about the design.