My dreams were all my own; I accounted for them to nobody; they were my refuge when annoyed - my dearest pleasure when free. - Mary Wollstonecraft

As I read, however, I applied much personally to my own feelings and condition. I found myself similar, yet at the same time strangely unlike to the beings concerning whom I read, and to whose conversation I was a listener. I sympathized with, and partly understood them, but I was unformed in mind, I was dependent on none, and related to none . . . and there was none to lament my annihilation . . . what did this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination? These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to solve them.

The very winds whispered in soothing accents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more.

On being charged with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a grat measure by her extreme confusion of manner.