Because of her upbringing and temperament she was not the girl to count the cost in anything she did.
She was a being of impulse who had never learnt restraint, who would act first and think afterwards.
Her dislike of her father was instinctive, almost impersonal, being based, indeed, on his treatment of her mother rather than on any resentment of his neglect of herself.

But Robert Turold had never been able to intimidate his daughter or tame her fearless spirit.

She had inherited too much of his own nature for that.
At that moment she was sitting motionless, immersed in thought, her chin on her hand, looking across the water to the horizon, where the Scilly Islands shimmered and disappeared in a grey, melting mist.

She did not hear the sound of Charles Turold's footsteps, descending the cliff path in search of her.
The young man stood still for a moment admiring her exquisite features in their soft contour and delicate colouring.

He pictured her to himself as a white wildflower in a grey wilderness.