She saw her discarded nun’s habit still on the floor and scooped it up. She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. She bounced onto her bottom. “Oh! I wish,” she said, “that people thought alike about these things. Mere hangers on. " "That's what troubles me," rejoined Ben. I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it. Odd, but he had never thought of the beach until this girl (who looked as if she had stepped out of the family album) referred to it with a familiarity which was as astonishing as it was profoundly sad. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is.
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