I certainly must,' said she. 'This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of everything's being dull and insipid about the house! I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not.

The worst crimes; are the crimes of the heart

Time will explain.

Oh! write, write. Finish it at once. Let there be an end of this suspense. Fix, commit, condemn yourself.

Know your own happiness.

I have been used to consider poetry as "the food of love" said Darcy. "Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.

A lady, without a family, was the very best preserver of furniture in the world.