Sublime

If Dorothea, after her night’s anguish, had not taken that walk to Rosamond – why, she perhaps would have been a woman who gained a higher character for discretion, but it would certainly not have been as well for those three who were on one hearth in Lydgate’s house at half-past seven that evening.

“Don’t write.” Max, trying to keep his banner of truth before him, said, “You should write poetry; you have a gifted ear for language. You shouldn’t write prose or anything that is all tarted up with ‘ideas’ and ‘facts.’” The women, one by one, took her into the bedrooms of parties and said, “Don’t write, darling. It’s not nice.” The purple fire

mustn't look for

the stifling oppression of that gentlewoman’s world, where everything was done for her and none asked for her aid

wont