e they wrong?

Always on clear evenings the sun flung a great ray across her
wall, turning the faded pale green paper into a liquid gold-green
like sunlit water, evoking a dusty gleam from her mirror, and
deepening the shadows in an old mezzo tint of Botticelli's Spring
which was pinned up where she could gaze at it while she brushed
her hair. The room thus illumined was that of a young girl with
little time to spare and less money, and an ungrown individual
taste not yet critical enough to throw off early loyalties.
There were no other pictures, except an engraving of "The Light
of the World," given her by Val, who admired it. There was a
tall bookcase, the top shelves devoted to Sweet's "Anglo-Saxon
Reader," Lanson's "Histoire de la litterature Francaise," and
other textbooks that she was reading for her examination in
October, the lower a ragged regiment of novels and verse--"The
Three Musketeers," "Typhoon," "Many Inventions," Landor's
"Hellenics," "with fondest love from Laura," "Une Vie" and "Fort
comme la Mort" in yellow and initialled "Y.B." There were also a big
table strewn with papers and books, and a chintz covered box-ottoman
into which Isabel bundled all those rubbishing treasures that people
who love their past can never make up their weak minds to throw away.
She examined them all in the stream of gold sunlight as if she had
never seen them before. It was time to get up and arrange her hair
and change into her lace petticoats. If she did not get up at once
she would be late and they would lose their train. And it seemed to
her that she would die if they lost their train, that she never could
survive such a disappointment: and yet she could not bring herself to
get up and give over dreaming.

And what dreams they were, oh! what would Val say to them?--And
yet again after all were they so wicked?--They were incredibly
naif and innocent, and so dim that within twenty-four hours
Isabel was to look back on them as a woman looks back on her
childhood. She was not ignorant of the mysteries of birth and
death. She had lived all her life among the poor, and knew many
things which are not included in school curricula, such as the
gentle art of keeping children's hair clean, how to divide a
four-roomed cottage between a man and wife and six children and a
lodger, and what to say when shown "a beautiful corpse": but she
had never had a lover of her own. There were no marriageable men
in Chilmark--there ne