Byron's daughter, Babbage's interpreter: she saw that a machine for numbers was really a machine for symbols — and said exactly what it could not do.
The painter of sunflowers and starry nights, who answered despair with the day's work and wrote love letters to the ordinary world.
She got the machine to do the copying, then spent twenty years losing the argument about where the field should go next.
Asks not whether your work is good but whether you must make it, then sends you into solitude and tells you to live the questions you cannot yet answer.