For the man who had spoken thus was, in a sense, not a mere stranger to her.

Somewhere in his being must be the capacity for those thoughts and feelings that had touched her so deeply in his book--for that magical insight and sweetness-- Ah!--perhaps she had not understood his book--no more than she understood him now.

The sense of her own ignorance oppressed her--and of all that _might_ be said, with regard apparently to anything whatever.

Was there nothing quite true--quite certain--in the world?
So the girl's intense and simple nature entered like all its fellows, upon the old inevitable struggle.

As she stood there, with locked hands and flushed cheeks, conscious through every vein of the inrush and shock of new perceptions, new comparisons, she was like a ship that leaves the harbour for the open, and feels for the first time on all her timbers the strain of the unplumbed sea.
And of this invasion, this excitement, the mind, in haunting debate and antagonism, made for itself one image, one symbol--the face of Edward Manisty..