Stupid Men Are The Only Ones Worth

Her Eye Fell Everywhere On Lawns And Plantations Of The Freshest Green; And The Trees, Though Not Fully Clothed, Were In That Delightful State When Farther Beauty Is Known To Be At Hand, And When, While Much Is Actually Given To The Sight, More Yet Remains For The Imagination.

One Cannot Fix One's Eyes On The Commonest Natural Production Without Finding Food For A Rambling Fancy.

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.

No- I Cannot Talk Of Books In A Ballroom; My Head Is Always Full Of Something Else.

She Tried To Be Calm, And Leave Things To Take Their Course; And Tried To Dwell Much On This Argument Of Rational Dependence – “surely, If There Be Constant Attachment On Each Side, Our Hearts Must Understand Each Other Ere Long. We Are Not Boy And Girl, To Be Captiously Irritable, Misled By Every Moment’s Inadvertence, And Wantonly Playing With Our Own Happiness.” And Yet, A Few Minutes Afterwards, She Felt As If Their Being In Company With Each Other, Under Their Present Circumstances, Could Only Be Exposing Them To Inadvertencies And Misconstructions Of The Most Mischievous Kind.