He had guessed that she was there with an idea, there in fact by reason of her idea; only this, oddly enough, was what at the last stayed his words.
She was helped to these perceptions by his now looking at her still harder than he had yet done--which really brought it to the turn of a hair, for her, that she didn't make sure his notion of her idea was the right one.

It was the turn of a hair, because he had possession of her hands and was bending toward her, ever so kindly, as if to see, to understand, more, or possibly give more--she didn't know which; and that had the effect of simply putting her, as she would have said, in his power.

She gave up, let her idea go, let everything go; her one consciousness was that he was taking her again into his arms.

It was not till afterwards that she discriminated as to this; felt how the act operated with him instead of the words he hadn't uttered--operated, in his view, as probably better than any words, as always better, in fact, at any time, than anything.

Her acceptance of it, her response to it, inevitable, foredoomed, came back to her, later on, as a virtual assent to the assumption he had thus made that there was really nothing such a demonstration didn't anticipate and didn't dispose of, and that the spring acting within herself moreover might well have been, beyond any other, the impulse legitimately to provoke it.