Her eye was caught by the final letters in Lord Macaulay's name.

And she read them all round the dome--the names of great men which remind us--"Oh damn," said Julia Hedge, "why didn't they leave room for an Eliot or a Bronte ?" Unfortunate Julia! wetting her pen in bitterness, and leaving her shoe laces untied.

When her books came she applied herself to her gigantic labours, but perceived through one of the nerves of her exasperated sensibility how composedly, unconcernedly, and with every consideration the male readers applied themselves to theirs.

That young man for example.

What had he got to do except copy out poetry?
And she must study statistics.