One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a fortnight.

I am not at all in a humour for writing; I must write on till I am.

There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.

Faultless in spite of all her faults.

Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing after all.

An interval of meditation, serious and grateful, was the best corrective of everything dangerous in such a high-wrought felicity; and she went to her room, and grew steadfast and fearless in the thankfulness of her enjoyment.

I have no pretensions whatever to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man.