It did not seem possible to him that she could be thinking of him at all, this beautiful creature with her pure regard of the holy mystery of the nightly sky; but in reality Rose, being the more emotional of the two, and also, since she was not the one to advance, the more daring, began to tremble with impatience for his closer contact, for the touch of his hand upon hers.
She would have died before she would have made the first advance, but it filled her as with secret fire.

Finally a sort of anger possessed her, anger at herself and at Horace.

She became horribly ashamed of herself, and angry at him because of the shame.

She gazed out at the wonderful masses of shadows which the trees made, and she gazed up again at the sky and that floating crystal, and it seemed impossible that it was within her as it was.

Her clear face was as calm as marble, her expression as immovable, her gaze as direct.