Will you not even look at me, Martin ?" He still resisted her, but her hand felt very warm and comforting--it was such a large, warm, protecting hand.

So pleasant did it feel that after a little while he began to move his hand up her beautiful, soft, white arm until it touched her hair.

For her hair was unbound and loose; it was dark, and finer than the finest spun silk, and fell all over her shoulders and down her back to the stone she sat on.

He let his fingers stray in and out among it; and it felt like the soft, warm down that lines a little bird's nest to his skin.

Finally, he touched her neck and allowed his hand to rest there, it was such a soft, warm neck.