I Want Nothing But Death.

The Person, Be It Gentleman Or Lady, Who Has Not Pleasure In A Good Novel, Must Be Intolerably Stupid.

Such A Letter Was Not To Be Soon Recovered From. . . . Every Moment Rather Brought Fresh Agitation. It Was An Overpowering Happiness.

Elinor Was To Be The Comforter Of Others In Her Own Distresses, No Less Than In Theirs; And All The Comfort That Could Be Given By Assurances Of Her Own Composure Of Mind, And A Very Earnest Vindication Of Edward From Every Charge But Of Imprudence, Was Readily Offered.

Catherine Hoped At Least To Pass Uncensured Through The Crowd. As For Admiration, It Was Always Very Welcome When It Came, But She Did Not Depend On It.

Facts Or Opinions Which Are To Pass Through The Hands Of So Many, To Be Misconceived By Folly In One, And Ignorance In Another, Can Hardly Have Much Truth Left.