My Sore Throats Are Always Worse Than

I Always Deserve The Best Treatment Because I Never Put Up With Any Other.

You Pierce My Soul. I Am Half Agony, Half Hope...i Have Loved None But You.

I Have No More To Say. If This Be The Case, He Deserves You. I Could Not Have Parted With You, My Lizzy, To Any One Less Worthy.

I Am Determined That Only The Deepest Love Will Induce Me Into Matrimony. So... I Shall End An Old Maid, And Teach Your Ten Children To Embroider Cushions And Play Their Instruments Very Ill.

Vanity Was The Beginning And The End Of Sir Walter Elliot's Character; Vanity Of Person And Of Situation. He Had Been Remarkably Handsome In His Youth; And, At Fifty-four, Was Still A Very Fine Man. Few Women Could Think More Of Their Personal Appearance Than He Did, Nor Could The Valet Of Any New Made Lord Be More Delighted With The Place He Held In Society. He Considered The Blessing Of Beauty As Inferior Only To The Blessing Of A Baronetcy; And The Sir Walter Elliott, Who United These Gifts, Was The Constant Object Of His Warmest Respect And Devotion.