Date: 1788

"Mary could not help thinking that in his company her mind expanded, as he always went below the surface. She increased her stock of ideas, and her taste was improved."

— Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797)

Date: 1788

"The same warmth which determined her will make her repent; and sorrow, the rust of the mind, will never have a chance of being rubbed off by sensible conversation, or new-born affections of the heart."

— Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797)

Date: 1788

"Such a crowd of thoughts all at once rushed into Mary's mind, that she in vain attempted to express the sentiments which were most predominant."

— Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797)

Date: 1788

"Her heart longed to receive a new guest; there was a void in it: accustomed to have some one to love, she was alone, and comfortless, if not engrossed by a particular affection."

— Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797)

Date: 1788

"Her mind was unhinged, and passion unperceived filled her whole soul."

— Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797)

Date: 1788

"Her delicacy did not restrain her, for her dislike to her husband had taken root in her mind long before she knew Henry."

— Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797)

Date: 1788

"The same turn of mind which leads me to adore the Author of all Perfection--which leads me to conclude that he only can fill my soul; forces me to admire the faint image--the shadows of his attributes here below; and my imagination gives still bolder strokes to them."

— Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797)

Date: 1788

"In a state of bliss, it will be the society of beings we can love, without the alloy that earthly infirmities mix with our best affections, that will constitute great part of our happiness."

— Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797)

Date: 1788

"Her moistened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts darted into her mind, and pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to bear the intellectual weight, she tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them."

— Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797)

Date: 1788

"'Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do I indeed wish it to be composed---to forget my Henry?' the 'my', the pen was directly drawn across in an agony."

— Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797)