She was leaking. Again. It seemed only to happen in public. At home it was never a problem. She could sit for hours reading or working out mathematical equations. Even when staring at the clouds or stars and theorizing, there was no seepage.
But out shopping, at tea, in a ballroom and especially at the subscription library, she had only to open her mouth and the trickle, then torrent, of her words, opinions and knowledge flooded the air.
Her intelligence on hideous display and before she could ratchet her jaw shut, the whispers began all round.
“Bluestocking.”
Image: Portrait of MME De Graffigny by Pierre Mignard via flickr commons