She Mediated, By Turns, On Broken Promises

They Gave Themselves Up Wholly To Their Sorrow, Seeking Increase Of Wretchedness In Every Reflection That Could Afford It, And Resolved Against Ever Admitting Consolation In Future.

Marry Me. Marry Me, My Wonderful, Darling Friend.

It Is The Misfortune Of Poetry, To Be Seldom Safely Enjoyed By Those Who Enjoy It Completely.

…she Felt Depressed Beyond Any Thing She Had Ever Known Before.

A Sick Child Is Always The Mother's Property; Her Own Feelings Generally Make It So.