Explore "The Incomplete Amorist" by Edith Nesbit on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
If you have found yourself, at the age of eighteen, a prisoner in your own bedroom you will be able to feel with Betty. Not otherwise. Even your highly strung imagination will be impotent to present to you the ecstasy of rage, terror, resentment that fills the soul when locked door and barred windows say, quite quietly, but beyond appeal: "Here you are, and here, my good child, you stay."
All the little familiar objects, the intimate associations of the furniture of a room that has been for years your boudoir as well as your sleeping room, all the decorations that you fondly dreamed gave to your room a _cachet_ -- the mark of a distinctive personality, -- these are of no more comfort to you than would be strange bare stone walls and a close unfamiliar iron grating.