She could judge herself, yes, better than Sidney Kirkwood could judge her.

She knew her defects, knew her vices, and a feud with fate caused her to accept them defiantly.

Many a time had she sobbed out to herself, 'I wish I could neither read nor write! I wish I had never been told that there is anything better than to work with one's hands and earn daily bread!' But she could not renounce the claims that Nature had planted in her, that her guardians had fostered.

The better she understood how difficult was every way of advancement, the more fiercely resolute was she to conquer satisfactions which seemed beyond the sphere of her destiny.
Of late she had thought much of her childish successes in reciting poetry.

It was not often that she visited a theatre (her father had always refused to let her go with any one save himself or Sidney), but on the rare occasions when her wish was gratified, she had watched each actress with devouring interest, with burning envy, and had said to herself, 'Couldn't I soon learn to do as well as that?
Can't I see where it might be made more lifelike?
Why should it be impossible for me to go on the stage ?' In passing a shop-window where photographs were exposed, she looked for those of actresses, and gazed at them with terrible intensity.