There Is No Happiness Like That Of

I Wished Critics Would Judge Me As An Author, Not As A Woman.

The Eagerness Of A Listener Quickens The Tongue Of A Narrator.

My Rest Might Have Been Blissful Enough, Only A Sad Heart Broke It.

Jane, My Little Darling (so I Will Call You, For So You Are), You Don't Know What You Are Talking About; You Misjudge Me Again: It Is Not Because She Is Mad I Hate Her. If You Were Mad, Do You Think I Should Hate You?

I Seem To Have Gathered Up A Stray Lamb In My Arms: You Wandered Out Of The Fold To Seek Your Shepherd, Did You, Jane?