"I am tired to death of it all.

I want some change.

Do you think any girls in the world lead such lives as we do--shut up in a rambling old farm house, studying from morn to night; shut in on one side by that tiresome sea, imprisoned on the other by fields and woods?
How can you take it so quietly, Lillian?
I am wearied to death." "Something has disturbed you this morning," said Lillian, gently.
"That is like mamma," cried Beatrice; "just her very tone and words.
She does not understand, you do not understand; mamma's life satisfies her, your life contents you; mine does not content me--it is all vague and empty.

I should welcome anything that changed this monotony; even sorrow would be better than this dead level--one day so like another, I can never distinguish them." "My dear Beatrice, think of what you are saying," said Lillian.
"I am tired of thinking," said Beatrice; "for the last ten years I have been told to 'think' and 'reflect.' I have thought all I can; I want a fresh subject." "Think how beautiful those far-off white sails look," said Lillian--"how they gleam in the sunshine.

See, that one looks like a mysterious hand raised to beckon us away." "Such ideas are very well for you, Lillian," retorted Beatrice.