The back of the black-haired boy's head drew nearer and . . . he was straightening up now, putting down his quill, pulling his roll of parchment towards him so as to reread what he had written . . .
No one could go forward with a load of aching memories. His hand dropped from her chin and he took one of her hands between his two and held it gently.
The back of the black-haired boy's head drew nearer...he was straightening up now, putting down his quill, pulling his roll of parchment towards him so as to reread what he had written...