Still, a suggestion.

.

." There was something inexpressibly sacred about it, yet she found herself tongue-tied.

Instead of the one definite thing to say, a muddle of ideas fluttered in her brain.

After all, could he understand?
Was there not a difference which prevented him from comprehending the motives which, for her, were impelling?
For all her harking back to the primitive and stout defence of its sanity and truth, did his native philosophy give him the same code which she drew from her acquired philosophy?
Then she stood aside and regarded herself and the queries she put, and drew apart from them, for they breathed of treason.
"There is nothing between us, father," she spoke up resolutely.