Sometimes she went so far as to wish that she might find herself some day in a difficult position, so that she should have the pleasure of being as heroic as the occasion demanded.

She had the best kind of courage, or maybe the worst kind, the kind that gets you into trouble.

This was not to say, however, that she did not long, at times, for some greater change, that she did not experience some of those exceptional moments when one thirsts for something other than what is, and when those who, through lack of energy or imagination, are unable to generate any motive power in themselves, cry out, as the clock strikes or the postman knocks, for something new, even if it is worse, some emotion, some sorrow; when the heartstrings, which contentment has silenced, like a harp laid by, yearn to be plucked and sounded again by some hand, however rough, even if it should break them; when the will, which has with such difficulty won the right to indulge without let or hindrance in its own desires and woes, would gladly fling the reins into the hands of imperious circumstance, however cruel.

She encouraged herself to see her very small presence in the world as a good thing, a power, something that a hero might possess.

What madness! Yet she would do it, if she could force herself. She'd become, she believed, a stronger person: a willful, resolute. Like the man who adored her, reckless.

She thought it was part of the hardship of her life that there was laid upon her the burthen of larger wants than others seemed to feel – that she had to endure this wide hopeless yearning for that something, whatever it was, that was greatest and best on this earth.

Her early years were very unhappy, and she decided she would have a good time if she ever got a chance. Later on, she overdid it a little.

She was desperate and she was choosey
at the same time and, in a way, beautiful, but she didn't have quite enough going for her to become what
she imagined herself to be.

Still. She had hoped. It never hurt to hope, except when it did.

She wanted to disguise her embarrassment with irony as usual, even if it was at her own expense.”

In a word, in adversity she was the best of comforters, in good fortune the most troublesome of friends...

She wanted — what some people want throughout life — a grief that should deeply touch her, and thus humanize and make her capable of sympathy.

Sometimes she stuck out into the future, imagining her life different from what is was.

Exalted by a sentiment of which she was proud, and that overcame all her arrogance, she was reluctant to let a moment of her life go by without occupying it with some remarkable deed.