I'm convinced England's overflowing with eccentric people, places, happenings. Indeed, you might say eccentricity's normal in England.

I wanted so terribly to be good to him.

Walking down Belmotte was the oddest sensation-- every step took us deeper into the mist until at last it closed over our heads. It was like being drowned in the ghost of water.

But some characters in books are really real--Jane Austen's are; and I know those five Bennets at the opening of Pride and Prejudice, simply waiting to raven the young men at Netherfield Park, are not giving one thought to the real facts of marriage.

I wonder if there isn't a catch about having plenty of money? Does it eventually take the pleasure out of things?

extreme happiness invites religion almost as much as extreme misery.

Everything in the least connected with him has value for me; if someone even mentions his name it is like a little present to me-and I long to mention it myself