My mind is pleasing but not brilliant, solid but not deep. I always have something attractive to say to those who talk with me, but lack the conversational adornments we associate with cultured women. My mind has been formed, not only by reading but by conversation with my father and mother and by my own reflections on the little bit of the world I have seen. I am too sensitive to perserve a perfect eveness of temper, but too sweet to allow this to be troublesome to other people. It is only myself that is hurt.