She threw back her head, as if her white throat drank the sweet air like wine.

She held out her white hands, and let the warmth play over them palpably as a touch.
And Majendie longed to take her by those white hands and draw her to him.
If he could have trusted her; but some instinct plucked him backward, saying to him: "Not yet." A mossy rise under a beech-tree offered itself to Anne as a suitable throne for the regal woman that she was.

He spread out her coat, and she made room for him beside her.

He sat for a long time without speaking.
The powers which were working that day for Majendie gave to him that subtle silence.

He had, at most times, an inexhaustible capacity for keeping still.
Above them, just discernible through the tree-tops, veiled by a gauze of dazzling air, the hill brooded in its majestic dream.