" And she burst into a wild hysterical laugh. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. See what your misconduct has deprived you of —see what you might have been. . Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not.
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