I am no indiscriminate novel reader. The mere trash of the common circulating library I hold in the highest contempt.

She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy, miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry.

Which of all my important nothings shall I tell you first?

Undoubtedly ... there is a meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. What bears affinity to cunning is despicable.

Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.

There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison

Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her.