My Style Of Writing Is Very Diffrent

They Are Much To Be Pitied Who Have Not Been Given A Taste For Nature Early In Life.

Selfishness Must Always Be Forgiven You Know, Because There Is No Hope Of A Cure.

Her Pleasure In The Walk Must Arise From The Exercise And The Day, From The View Of The Last Smiles Of The Year Upon The Tawny Leaves And Withered Hedges, And From Repeating To Herself Some Few Of The Thousand Poetical Descriptions Extant Of Autumn-that Season Of Peculiar And Inexhaustible Influence On The Mind Of Taste And Tenderness-that Season Which Has Drawn From Every Poet Worthy Of Being Read Some Attempt At Description, Or Some Lines Of Feeling.

She Mediated, By Turns, On Broken Promises And Broken Arches, Phaetons And False Hangings, Tilneys And Trap-doors.

You Want To Tell Me, And I Have No Objection To Hearing It.