she looked at the universe through the medium of another kind of intellect. Who ever said there was only one kind: the intellectual. He could not see her intellectual cultivation of no moderate depth or scope; together with a range and freedom of ideas that he would have vainly looked for among the members of his own profession. She viewed the world with eyes aquinted with hidden virtues in what was valueless to the common eye. She had passion. Yes, passion that is the way to look at it. A light inside, ignited and burning; it reaches every corner and hurts to be extinguished.
-a nightmare from how it would have been?
It was as if a window were thrown open, admitting a freer atmosphere into the closed and stifled study, where her life was wasting itself away, amid lamp-light, or obstructed day beams, and the musty fragrance, be it sensual or moral, that exhales from books. But the air was too fresh and chill to be long breathed with comfort and so she withdrew.
one word: defiance
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