Nothing comes to me. I look good in bonnets. Oh, how shallow I am. I am nothing more than a vessel for clothing and pleasantries. My sewing is half-hearted; my aunt finishes my endeavours when I grow bored with them. I do not think there’s a single handkerchief I can take full credit for.

I am an expert at melancholy! I shall mock myself before others do.

I look pretty. That’s sincere. I would venture to say that I am prettier than Miss Lister. Good that I am too, otherwise she’d not look twice at me. I believe she likes how ladylike I am. She praises my posture and delicate hands. She likes to see me sewing and drawing. I shall become more accomplished for her. I shall engage an artist as my tutor. Perhaps I shall take up piano lessons again and surprise her with a recital one day. I shall whisper to her before I start to play that I am not wearing any drawers! That might pique her interest in my playing even more. How saucy I am! I have never felt so base before, but I find my thoughts stray these days. It is her influence on me. My other friends have been far too sedate all these years.

She is cleverer than me though, of that I am certain. Not just in what she has studied, but in her mind. Anyone can read a lot, but you must be clever to digest it and extrapolate meaning to discuss with others. I wonder if she minds my lack of intelligence compared to hers? Does she seek a companion who would be her equal, or just for company? If she represents an intelligent husband, is he content with a milder, but more attractive wife? Perhaps she does not want an equal in intellect, for then they might disagree and argue, always challenging each other, whilst instead I listen and ask her to explain it to me clearly, like the dutiful submissive wife. I shall stick to my novels. Her science seeks to make sense of the world but are novels not another way of doing so, even those dismissed by Miss Lister as a waste of time? I love to hear others’ stories and choices and dramas. Relate to heroes and heroines and lose myself in a world unreal. I do not want to know how the brain works, I want to see its workings in art, words, imagination. I want to enjoy the outcome of a mind, not see the components that make it work. I like the face of a clock, not the clockwork.

Miss Lister

I had to shave all the hair off the head as it was crawling with lice.