Conrad personified.

Everything belonged to her--but that was a trifle. The thing was to know what she belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed her for their own. You can't understand. How could you? I've done enough for her to give me the indisputable right to lay her, if I choose, for an everlasting rest in the dust-bin of progress, amongst all the sweepings, and, figuratively speaking, all the dead cats of civilization. Her very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and altogether bewildering. She was an insoluble problem. It was inconceivable how she had existed, how she had succeeded in getting so far, how she had managed to remain--why she did not instantly disappear. For months--for years--her life hadn't been worth a day's purchase; and there she was, thoughtlessly alive. Whether she knew of this deficiency in herself I can't say. I think the knowledge came to her at last. But her surroundings had found her out early, and had taken on her a terrible vengeance for the fantastic invasion. I think it had whispered to her things about herself which she did not know, things of which she had no conception until she took counsel with this great solitude--and the whisper had proved irresistibly fascinating. It echoed loudly within her because she was hollow at the core . . .