His hand fell slackly from hers as she took it.
It was as if they were still on their guard, still afraid of each other's touch.
As he sat in the chair that faced hers he held his hands clasped loosely in front of him, and looked at them with a curious attention, as if he wondered what kind of hands they were that could resist holding her.
When he saw that she was looking at him they fell apart with a nervous gesture.
They picked up the book she had laid down and turned it. His eyes examined the title page. Their pathos lightened and softened; it became compassion; they smiled at her with a little pitiful smile, half tender, half ironic, as if they said, "Poor Gwenda, is that what you're driven to?"
He opened the book and turned the pages, reading a little here and there.
He scowled. His look changed. It darkened. It was angry, resentful, inimical. The dying youth in it came a little nearer to death.
Rowcliffe had found that he could not understand what he had read.
"Huh! What do you addle your brains with that stuff for?" he said.
"It amuses me."