Faultless in spite of all her faults.

I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding— certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of other so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.

Good apple pies are a considerable part of our domestic happiness.

An artist cannot do anything slovenly.

Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?

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

An annuity is a very serious business.