And then I came to a field where the springing grass Was dulled by the hanging cups of fritillaries, Sullen and foreign-looking, the snaky flower, Scarfed in dull purple, like Egyptian girls⁠—

As she wrote she felt some power (remember we are dealing with the most obscure manifestations of the human spirit) reading over her shoulder, and when she had written “Egyptian girls,” the power told her to stop. Grass, the power seemed to say, going back with a ruler such as governesses use to the beginning, is all right; the hanging cups of fritillaries⁠—admirable; the snaky flower⁠—a thought, strong from a lady’s pen, perhaps, but Wordsworth, no doubt, sanctions it; but⁠—girls? Are girls necessary? You have a husband at the Cape, you say? Ah, well, that’ll do.

And so the spirit passed on.