Swinging distance put between them a couple times over, Quentin finally releases his breath and the fighting tension in his knees and elbows. It doesn't quite leach out of his hips or shoulders, lingers in his throat as he warns lowly, "Hey, man, I think she knows. As long as we're stating the obvious, you're acting like a prick. Here." 

That sound is him pushing the walking stick closer to Gabe's wandering fingers. He doesn't realize glasses are missing. 

In the bag on the ground about thirty feet off, near a rough-beaten path that she might have found if she decided to keep walking instead of taking a swing, there are a couple of loose shirts and roughmade trousers. It's all more the type of thing someone would wear around the house, handmade and a little lumpy, big enough for most anyone he might find out here. It's more about modesty, but there's a wool blanket tangled between pieces of clothing.