Hull's memoir feels uneven: the opening, with its powerful descriptions of a time long lost, mixed with tragedy through the lens of childhood, contrasted with the rushed, almost not worthy of mention moments of her later years. After such a strong opening, focusing so heavily on these moments of a troubled childhood, it feels like the latter chapters were an afterthought. The best way I can describe the feeling of Hull's memoir is that she lost steam part way through. This is a shame because her writing is descriptive, easy to read, and even addicting in the first half. Still, despite my complaints, I do not regret reading it, if only for the picture of a last that is long since dead.