She knew she felt contrary again, and obstinate, and she did not care at all.

She was imperious and Indian, and at the same time hot and sorrowful.
"Come with me and I'll show you," she said.
She led him round the laurel path and to the walk where the ivy grew so thickly.

Dickon followed her with a queer, almost pitying, look on his face.

He felt as if he were being led to look at some strange bird's nest and must move softly.

When she stepped to the wall and lifted the hanging ivy he started.