Elinor could sit still no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would never cease.
Time, time will heal the wound.
There seemed a gulf impassable between them.
I trust that absolutes have gradations.
Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.
Is not poetry the food of love?