There Are Secrets In All Families.

Sir Walter Elliot, Of Kellynch-hall, In Somersetshire, Was A Man Who, For His Own Amusement, Never Took Up Any Book But The Barontage; There He Found Occupation For An Idle Hour, And Consolation In A Distressed One; . . .

[mrs. Allen Was] Never Satisfied With The Day Unless She Spent The Chief Of It By The Side Of Mrs. Thorpe, In What They Called Conversation, But In Which There Was Scarcely Ever Any Exchange Of Opinion, And Not Often Any Resemblance Of Subject, For Mrs. Thorpe Talked Chiefly Of Her Children, And Mrs. Allen Of Her Gowns.

Maybe It’s That I Find It Hard To Forgive The Follies And Vices Of Others, Or Their Offenses Against Me. My Good Opinion, Once Lost, Is Lost Forever.

Nobody Is Healthy In London, Nobody Can Be.

But There Was Happiness Elsewhere Which No Description Can Reach.