He read on, feeling very uncomfortable, and longing for one of those explanations that are impossible between acquaintances and emotional between lovers.

He felt also that if he ever spoke out and told her he loved her it would be in some such situation as the present.

Margaret let her needlework drop and leaned back in the long chair, staring at a very uninteresting-looking tree on the other side of the garden.

Claudius read in a steady determined tone, emphasising his sentences with care, and never once taking his eyes from the book.

At last, noticing how quietly he was doing his work, Margaret looked at him, not furtively or as by stealth, but curiously and thoughtfully.