He had never bothered his head in that way about abstract things when he was her age, and he could not understand it in her.

What was more, he could not have thought as she did if he had tried.

She had that sort of mind which accepts no stereotyped reflection or idea; she worked things out for herself.

Her words were her own, and not another's.

She was not imitative, nor yet was she bizarre; she was individual, simple, inquiring.
"That's the thing that hurts most in life," she added presently; "that trying to find and not being able to--voila, what a child I am to babble so!" she broke off with a little laugh, which had, however, a plaintive note.