There was that in her face which did not belong to civilization or to that fighting world of which Ingolby was so eager a factor.

All the generations of the wood and road, the combe and the river, the quarry and the secluded boscage were in her look.

There was that about her which was at once elusive and primevally real.
She was not of those who would be lost in the dust of futility.
Whatever she was, she was an independent atom in the mass of the world's breeding.

Perhaps it was consciousness of the dynamic quality in the girl, her nearness to naked nature, which made Madame Bulteel say that she would "have a history." If she got twisted as she came wayfaring, if her mind became possessed of a false passion or purpose which she thought a true one, then tragedy would await her.

Yet in this quiet wood so near to the centuries that were before Adam was, she looked like a spirit of comedy listening till the Spirit of the Wood should break the silence.
Ingolby felt his blood beat faster.