“It is not everyone,” said Elinor, “who has your passion for dead leaves.”

Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, every thing was terrible.

There, he had seen every thing to exalt in his estimation the woman he had lost, and there begun to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of resentment, which had kept him from trying to regain her when thrown in his way.

Her eye fell everywhere on lawns and plantations of the freshest green; and the trees, though not fully clothed, were in that delightful state when farther beauty is known to be at hand, and when, while much is actually given to the sight, more yet remains for the imagination.

The most incomprehensible thing in the world to a man, is a woman who rejects his offer of marriage!

A man always imagines a woman to be ready for anybody who asks her.

Which of all my important nothings shall I tell you first?