Its green arms, plunging to the valley, gathered them and shut them in.
Majendie's figure was not diminished by the background.

The smallest nervous movement on his part would have undone him, but he did not move.
His profound stillness, suggesting an interminable patience, gave him a beautiful immensity of his own.
Anne, left in her charmed, inviolate circle, surrendered sweetly to the spirit of Westleydale.
The place was peace folded upon the breast of peace.
Presently she spoke, calling his name, as if out of the far-off unutterable peace.
"Walter, it was kind of you to bring me here." "I am so glad you like it." "I do indeed." He tried to say more, but his heart choked him.
She closed her eyes, and the peace poured over her, and sank in.

Her heart beat quietly.
She opened her eyes and turned them on her husband.

She knew that it was his gaze that had compelled them to open.

She smiled to herself, like a young girl, shyly but happily aware of him, and turned from him to her contemplation of the woods.
Anne had always rather prided herself on her susceptibility to the beauty of nature, but it had never before reached her with this poignant touch.
Hitherto she had drawn it in with her eyes only; now it penetrated her through every nerve.