That's better.

Now try to analyze a single bloom of this gaudy mass, and you will see why there's poetry coming." He knelt beside the Girl, separating the blooms and pointing out their marvellous colour and construction.

She leaned against his shoulder, and watched with breathless interest.

As his bare head brought its mop of damp wind-rumpled hair close, she ran her fingers through it, and with her handkerchief wiped his forehead.
"Sometimes I almost wish you'd get sick," she said irrelevantly.
"In the name of common sense, why ?" demanded the Harvester.
"Oh it must be born in the heart of a woman to want to mother something," answered the Girl.

"I feel sometimes as if I would like to take care of you, as if you were a little fellow.