What Do You Know Of My Heart?

It Would Be Difficult To Say Which Had Seen Highest Perfection In The Other, Or Which Had Been The Happiest: She, In Receiving His Declarations And Proposals, Or He In Having Them Accepted.

Obstinate, Headstrong Girl!

Told Herself Likewise Not To Hope. But It Was Too Late. Hope Had Already Entered.

I Will Not Adopt That Ungenerous And Impolitic Custom So Common With Novel Writers, Of Degrading By Their Contemptuous Censure The Very Performances, To The Number Of Which They Are Themselves Adding?joining With Their Greatest Enemies In Bestowing The Harshest Epithets On Such Works, And Scarcely Ever Permitting Them To Be Read By Their Own Heroine, Who, If She Accidentally Take Up A Novel, Is Sure To Turn Over Its Insipid Leaves With Disgust.

But To Appear Happy When I Am So Miserable — Oh! Who Can Require It?