Poor Edward muttered something; but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself.
Oh! to be sure,” cried Emma, “it is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her.
I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love.
The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think and be miserable.
Mine is a misery which nothing can do away.
Elizabeth could never address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had been, rather than what was.
Go and eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well.
You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who would make you so.
All the overpowering blinding, bewildering, first effects of strong surprise were over with her. Still, however, she had enough to feel! It was agitation, pain, pleasure, a something between delight and misery.
Miss Bingley’s congratulations to her brother, on his approaching marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere.
There is exquisite pleasure in subduing an insolent spirit, in making a person pre-determined to dislike, acknowledge one’s superiority. – Lady Susan.
Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this great lady’s attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of dictating to others.
Anne could not immediately fall into a quotation again. The sweet scenes of autumn were for a while put by – unless some tender sonnet, fraught with the apt analogy of the declining year, with declining happiness, and the images of youth and hope, and spring, all gone together, blessed her memory.
Affectation of candour is common enough – one meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design – to take the good of everybody’s character and make it still better, and say nothing of the bad – belongs to you alone.
The little Durands were there, I conclude,” said she, “with their mouths open to catch the music; like unfledged sparrows ready to be fed. They never miss a concert.
You have another long walk before you.
If her case was pitiable, his was hopeless. His imprudence had made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise.
It was impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality showed indisposition so plainly.
The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit.
He considered the blessing of beauty as inferior only to the blessing of a baronetcy; and the Sir Walter Elliot, who united these gifts, was the constant object of his warmest respect and devotion.