Beloved

I'm currently reading Beloved by Toni Morrison for my English Literature A Level and I just read a really beautiful piece of description in it:

Denver stopped and sighed. This was the part of the story she loved. She was coming to it now, and she loved it because it was all about herself; but she hated it too because it made her feel like a bill was owing somewhere and she, Denver, had to pay it. But who she owed or what to pay it with eluded her. Now, watching Bekived's alrt and hungry face, how she took in every word, asking questions about the color of things and their size, he downright craving to know, Denver began to see what she was saying and not just to hear it: there is this nineteen-ear-old slavegirl - a year older than herself - walking through the dark woods to get her children who are far away. She is tired, scared maybe, and maybe even lost. Most of all she is by herself and inside her is another baby she has to think about too. Behind her dogs, perhaps; guns probably; and certainly mossy teeth. She is not so afraid at night because she is the color of it, but in the day every sound is a shot or a tracher's quiet step.
Denver was seeing it now and feeling it - through Beloved. Feeling how it must have felt to her mother. Seeing how it must have looked. And the more fine points she made, the more detail she provided, the more Beloved liked it. So she anticipated the questions by giving blood to the scraps her mother and grandmother had told her - and a heartbeat. The monologue became, in fact, a duet as they lay down together, Denver nursing Beloved's interest like a lover whose pleasure was to overfeed the loved. The dark quilt with two orange patches was there with them because Beloved wanted it near her when she slept. It was smelling like grass and feeling like hands - the unrested hands of busy women: dry, warm, prickly. Denver spoke, Beloved listened, and the two did the best they could to create what really happened, how it really was, something only Sethe knew because she alone had the mind for it and the time afterward to shape it: the quality of Amy's voice, her breath like burning wood. The quick-change weather up in those hills - cool at night, hot in the day, sudden fog. How recklessly she behaved with this whitegirl - a recklessness born of desperation and encouraged by Amy's fugitive eyes and her tenderhearted mouth.