Ambrose made room for Naomi to sit between his brother and himself.

She changed color for a moment, and looked at him, with a pretty, reluctant tenderness, as she took her chair.

I strongly suspected the young farmer of squeezing her hand privately, under cover of the tablecloth.
The supper was not a merry one.

The only cheerful conversation was the conversation across the table between Naomi and me.
For some incomprehensible reason, John Jago seemed to be ill at ease in the presence of his young countrywoman.

He looked up at Naomi doubtingly from his plate, and looked down again slowly with a frown.
When I addressed him, he answered constrainedly.