The text I decided to star comes from the hypertext "Patchwork Girl", created by Shelley Jackson. Below, I have pasted the original passage as an image (click for higher quality) and as transcribed text.
I am
I am tall, and broad-shouldered enough that many take me for a man; others think me a transsexual (another feat of cut and stitch) and examine my jaw and hands for outsized bones, my throat for the tell-tell Adam's Apple. My black hair falls down my back but does not make me girlish. Women and men alike mistake my gender and both are drawn to me.
The motley effect of patched skin has lessened with age and uniform light conditions, though I am still subtly pied. Naked, I am more visibly so. I have large eyes, thought they are proportional to my other features (all my features are large, but do not appear so in this setting). My pupils are pale grey, black-ringed.
I move swiftly, with long loose strides; I was never comfortable in the drawing rooms or the pruned and cherished gardens of Mary's time and territory. I am happier where I have room to take long strides and I am enough alone that I can strip and walk unencumbered I was made as strong as my unfortunate and famous brother, but less neurotic!
Born full-grown, I have lived in this frame for 175 years. By another reckoning, I have lived many lives (Tituba's, Jane's, and the others') and am much older. The curious, the lustful, the suspicious, and the merely stupid watch me wherever I go and some follow me, scribbling notes and numerals, as if translation into a chart or overview will make all clear and safe as houses. They may be sure that I will lead them for a chase. I am never settled.
I belong nowhere. This is not bizarre for my sex, however, nor is it uncomfortable for us, to whom belonging has generally meant, belonging TO.
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