She is bound to have fixed one, and then another idea of herself, herself as woman.

First she is the noble spouse of a not-quite-so-noble male: then a _Mater Dolorosa_: then a ministering Angel: then a competent social unit, a Member of Parliament or a Lady Doctor or a platform speaker: and all the while, as a side show, she is the Isolde of some Tristan, or the Guinevere of some Lancelot, or the Fata Morgana of all men--in her own idea.

She can't stop having an idea of herself.

She can't get herself out of her own head.

And there she is, functioning away from her own head and her own consciousness of herself and her own automatic self-will, till the whole man and woman game has become just a hell, and men with any backbone would rather kill themselves than go on with it--or kill somebody else.
Yet we are going to inculcate more and more self-consciousness, teach every little Mary to be more and more a nice little Mary out of her own head, and every little Joseph to theorize himself up to the scratch.
And the point lies here.