This was a bit of a frustrating read. It is masterfully written, well if this was the 19th century. Atwood has done an incredible thing in morphing her writing to that of a 19th century romanticist. And while I can see just what a tough task this must have been, the resulting work is equally frustrating as it seems as hampered by the institutions of the age. Mostly, reading this only reinforced my feeling that reading fiction from this era is about as pleasing as gargling razor blades and tacks. The cultural repression is so caustic that the words just seems to irritate my eyes. The best part of the book is when Grace describes her childhood. Just like the best part of Jane Eyre is the first 10 chapters while she is a child. And while it was interesting to see where the story went, it was a very tough slog to get there.