It smelt very nice, and then, in his hunger, he bit through the smooth rind with his teeth, and it tasted as nice as it looked.

He quickly ate it, and then pulled another and ate that, and then another, and still others, until he could eat no more.

He had not had so delicious a meal for many a long day.
Not until he had eaten his fill did Martin begin to look closely at the flowers on the plant.

It was the passion-flower, and he had never seen it before, and now that he looked well at it he thought it the loveliest and strangest flower he had ever beheld; not brilliant and shining, jewel-like, in the sun, like the scarlet verbena of the plains, or some yellow flower, but pale and misty, the petals being of a dim greenish cream-colour, with a large blue circle in the centre; and the blue, too, was misty like the blue haze in the distance on a summer day.

To see and admire it better he reached out his hand and tried to pluck one of the flowers; then in an instant he dropped his hand, as if he had been pricked by a thorn.
But there was no thorn and nothing to hurt him; he dropped his hand only because he felt that he had hurt the flower.