The heat of human sympathy seemed to bring out her powerful vitality, rustling all over with laces and flowers.

She seemed to think and speak stronger holding a hand--not that she required help or borrowed a word, but that the human magnetism acted on her nature, as it does upon men born to speak.

Perhaps if she had been a man with a man's opportunities, she would have spoken rather than written a reputation.
Who can say?
She hated the act of composition.

Did you hear that from her ever?
Her letters were always admirable, but I do most deeply regret that what made one of their greatest charms unfits them for the public--I mean their personal details.

Mr.Harness sends to me for letters, and when I bring them up, and with the greatest pain force myself to examine them (all those letters she wrote to me in her warm goodness and affectionateness), I find with wonder and sorrow how only a half-page here and there _could_ be submitted to general readers--_could_, with any decency, much less delicacy.
But no, her 'judgment' was not 'unerring.' She was too intensely sympathetical not to err often, and in fact it was singular (or seemed so) what faces struck her as most beautiful, and what books as most excellent.