Her life had been full, it must find
fresh purpose, fresh interest and occupation, in a word, be refilled.
Literature allured her. She dreamed of wonderful tellings, dreamed of the
engrossing joys of the written word. But in what form--poetry, essay,
history, novel?--The extreme limitation of her own knowledge, or rather
the immensity of her own ignorance, confronted her. And that partly
through her own fault, for she had been exclusive, fastidious, disposed
to ignore both truths and people who offended her taste or failed to
strike her fancy. Hitherto she had been led by fancy and feeling rather
than by reasoned principle. She must at once simplify, broaden and
democratize her outlook. Must force herself to remember that respect is,
in some sort, due to everything--however unbeautiful, however even vile
or repugnant--which is a constant quantity in human affairs and human
character, due to everything in the realm of Nature also, however
repellent, if it _is_ really so, actually exists.
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