"I cannot. I will not!"
He lifted his hand determinedly. She still held the basket, her right hand clasping the left, her posture signifying that she was pausing for him to let her pass. He gave her an imploring look, but she was inflexible. Her face had assumed a softened yet determined expression. Regret and resolve had mingled their lines and gave her features a sad tenderness. She was merciful, yet resolute.
Gill pulled aside the overhanging branch of a tree and bowed to let her pass.
A sigh parted her lips as she gave him her hand in farewell. He seized it eagerly and held it firmly. She endeavored to take it from him, but not rudely. He loosed his grasp slightly and his hold became clinging in its significance. Her bursting heart, for she was giving up her life to her pride, rightly interpreted the meaning of this change in the pressure of his hand, and she thought of the tendrils spoken of in his mother's letter. Yes, they clung to her heart, and she could not roughly tear them away. So she lingered.
He gave her hand a pull, bending it until the wrist would not give way. Holding it thus, he said despairingly.
"I thought, Lizzī, you could arrange it some way."
He tried to lift her hand to his lips, but her wrist was firm.
"Can't you help me, Lizzī?"
The wrist yielded, her hand was at his lips. She let him kiss it, and then set down her basket.
Gill knew he had won. But she would have her hand free, for that would give her a feeling of independence. At the first hint he released it. She interlocked it with the other and looked meditatively at the ground, moving a loose stone with the toe of her shoe.