He wasn't wearing any gloves. She wasn't wearing any gloves! The dirt from her garden didn't count. But there he was, holding her hand as bold as brass. And the way he'd spoken to her! So familiar, as if he were a brother or a friend she'd known from childhood! She swallowed, colored, stammered something -- it may have been 'Thank you' -- and then abruptly crashed into his side. It wasn't intentional; the fact was that she had no idea that she couldn't actually step backward away from him - or not, at least, by leading with the left foot. But the shocking and amazing amount of fire that lanced through her ankle and up her leg was enough to still her thoughts about propriety. It was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears.
And that was exactly what she wanted to do.
But tears were almost as bad as panic - again, experience told her this - and she wouldn't let herself sink so low as to become a helpless, sobbing mess. She would not be helping herself by losing her head. She might not find it again in this strange place. Instead, she focused on pulling herself back up on her feet. It was only by the grace of the arms around her - were his arms around her?! they were! - that she'd kept from landing on the floor again.