She forced herself to observe the wonderfully delicate feathers on the bird's head.

It seemed more content now in the little nest her two palms had made for it.

Its heart did not flutter so much, and she fancied that the tiny, bead-like eyes were softer in their bright regard of her.
Robert Grant Burns came to a pause.

Jean sensed that he was waiting for some reply, and she looked up at him.

His hand was just reaching out to her shoulder, but it dropped instead to his coat pocket and fumbled for his handkerchief.