I wanted to.

These things, trivial in themselves, and never bound upon my conscience,
only offered as advice, had the effect of breaking up the constant
influence of the world, giving me a little time for thought, and
opportunity for self-denial. I cannot help thinking such things are very
useful for young persons, and particularly those who have only ordinary
force and resolution. At least, I think they were made a means of
security to me. I was so in earnest to do right, that I often thought,
in terror for myself, in the midst of alluring pleasures and delights,
it was a pity they had not let me be a Sister when I wanted to at first.
(I really think I had more vocation than they thought: I could have
_given up_, to the end of life, without a murmur, if that is what is
necessary.) As to the people who wanted to marry me, I did not care for
any of them, and seemed to have much less coquetry than of old. They
simply did not interest me, (of course, in a few years, I had outgrown
the love that I had supposed to be so immortal.) It was very pleasant to
be always attended to, and to have more constant homage than any other
young woman whom I saw. But as to liking particularly any of the men
themselves, it never occurred to me to think of it.

I was placed by my fortunate circumstances rather above the intrigue,
and detraction, and heart-burning, that attends the social struggle for
life in ordinary cases. If I were envied, I did not know it, and I had
small reason to envy anybody else, being quite the queen.

I enjoyed above measure, the bright and pleasant things that I had at my
command: the sunny rooms of my pretty house: the driving, the sailing,
the dancing: all that charms a healthy young taste, and is innocent. I
took journeys, with the ecstasy of youth and of good health. I never
shall forget the pleasure of certain days and skies, and the enjoyment
that I had in nature. In society, I had a little more weariness, as I
grew older, and found a certain want of interest, as was inevitable.
Society isn't all made up of clever people, and even clever people get
to be tiresome in the course of time. But at twenty-four I was by no
means _blase_, only more addicted to books and journeys, and less
enthusiastic about parties and croquet, though these I could enjoy a
little yet.

I had a pretty house (and re-furnished it very often, which always gave
me pleasure). I had no care, for Richard had arranged that I should have