I am not your dear; I cannot lie down: send me to school soon, Mrs. Reed, for I hate to live here.
I would always rather be happy than dignified.
What have I to do with millions [of people]? The eighty I know despise me.
Men, in general, are a sort of scum, very different to anything of which you have an idea.
Of late years an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the North of England.
In sunshine, in prosperity, the flowers are very well; but how many wet days are there in life—November seasons of disaster, when a man's hearth and home would be cold indeed, without the clear, cheering gleam of intellect.