To me it seemed that I was as old at fifteen as many a girl of eighteen; I had lived so much with grown-up people; I had received all my impressions from them.

I was very quick and appreciative.

I read character well, and seemed to have a weird, uncanny insight into the thoughts and ideas of people--into their motives and plans.

I had too much of this faculty, for I was often made uncomfortable because shadows came between me and others, and because I seemed to feel and understand things that I could never put into words.
Here is one little instance of what I mean: I stood one afternoon at the window of my mother's room.

The sun was shining brightly on the bloom of countless flowers and the feathery spray of the fountains; the whole place looked so bright and beautiful that it was a perfect picture.