She's Got Some Sort Of Notion In

I Dance With People I Despise; Amuse Myself With Men Whose Only Talent Lies In Their Feet, Gain The Disapprobation Of People I Honor And Respect; Return Home At Day Break With My Brain In A State Which Was Never Intended For It; And Arise In The Middle Of The Next Day Feeling Infinitely More, In Spirit And Flesh Like A Liliputian, Than A Woman With Body And Soul. Entry (when She Was Eighteen) In Her Commonplace Book, 1868-1869.

I Trust It Will Not Be Giving Away Professional Secrets To Say That Many Readers Would Be Surprised, Perhaps Shocked, At The Questions Which Some Newspaper Editors Will Put To A Defenseless Woman Under The Guise Of Flattery.

In The Procession I Should Feel The Crushing Feet, The Clashing Discords, The Ruthless Hands And Stifling Breath. I Could Not Hear The Rhythm Of The March.

I Should Never Deem A Man Of Ordinary Caliber Worthy Of My Devotion.

Exhaustion Was Pressing Upon And Overpowering Her. "good-by--because I Love You." He Did Not Know; He Did Not Understand. He Would Never Understand. Perhaps Doctor Mandelet Would Have Understood If She Had Seen Him--but It Was Too Late; The Shore Was Far Behind Her, And Her Strength Was Gone. She Looked Into The Distance, And The Old Terror Flamed Up For An Instant, Then Sank Again.