“I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as parting with one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them.”

Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.

Not keep a journal! How are your absent cousins to understand the tenor of your life in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of every day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every evening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered, and the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to be described in all their diversities, without having constant recourse to a journal?

It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.

He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and every body hoped that he would never come there again.

And to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.

How can you contrive to write so even?