One hand lay in her lap fingering a diminutive bit of cambric, which from time to time she pressed to her eyes.

The other she had almost unconsciously yielded to Armand.
The scent of the violets filled the room.

It seemed to emanate from her, a fitting attribute of her young, wholly unsophisticated girlhood.

The citizen was goodly to look at; he was kneeling at her feet, and his lips were pressed against her hand.
Armand was young and he was an idealist.

I do not for a moment imagine that just at this moment he was deeply in love.