Everybody Likes To Go Their Own Way–to

Far Be It From Me, My Dear Sister, To Depreciate Such Pleasures. They Would Doubtless Be Congenial With The Generality Of Female Minds. But I Confess They Would Have No Charms For Me. I Should Infinitely Prefer A Book.

Unjust I May Have Been, Weak And Resentful I Have Been, But Never Inconstant.

There Could Have Never Been Two Hearts So Open, No Tastes So Similar, No Feelings So In Unison, No Countenances So Beloved. Now They Were As Strangers; Nay, Worse Than Strangers, For They Could Never Become Acquainted. It Was A Perpetual Estrangement.

Reflection Must Be Reserved For Solitary Hours; Whenever She Was Alone, She Gave Way To It As The Greatest Relief; And Not A Day Went By Without A Solitary Walk, In Which She Might Indulge In All The Delight Of Unpleasant Recollections.

Whatever Bears Affinity To Cunning Is Despicable.