I Love You. Most Ardently.

Vanity Working On A Weak Head, Produces Every Sort Of Mischief.

From The Very Beginning— From The First Moment, I May Almost Say— Of My Acquaintance With You, Your Manners, Impressing Me With The Fullest Belief Of Your Arrogance, Your Conceit, And Your Selfish Disdain Of The Feelings Of Others, Were Such As To Form The Groundwork Of Disapprobation On Which Succeeding Events Have Built So Immovable A Dislike; And I Had Not Known You A Month Before I Felt That You Were The Last Man In The World Whom I Could Ever Be Prevailed On To Marry.

Where An Opinion Is General, It Is Usually Correct.

It Is Your Turn To Say Something Now, Mr. Darcy. I Talked About The Dance, And You Ought To Make Some Kind Of Remark On The Size Of The Room, Or The Number Of Couples.

Fine Dancing, I Believe Like Virtue, Must Be Its Own Reward. Those Who Are Standing By Are Usually Thinking Of Something Very Different.