How ill I have written. I begin to hate myself.
Perhaps it is our imperfections that make us so perfect for one another.
There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart.
A very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross.
I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way. Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.
She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew she ought to be happy.
My sore throats are always worse than anyone’s.
Wisdom is better than wit, and in the long run will certainly have the laugh on her side.
With men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please, every feature works.
A Woman never looks better than on horseback.
It was, perhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the event decides.
The sooner every party breaks up the better.
There is not the hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to be. Our foggy climate wants help.
He had an affectionate heart. He must love somebody.
And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you and admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But I have an aunt too, who must not be longer neglected.
If any young men come for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite as leisure.
But if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give.
She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.
Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, everything was terrible.
The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a teachableness of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing.
Almost anything is possible with time.