The truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be.

Till this moment I never knew myself.

Catherine [...] enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and, in finding him irresistible, becoming so herself.

A Mr. (save, perhaps, some half dozen in the nation,) always needs a note of explanation.

A mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a constant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other.

The more I see of the world, the more am i dissatisfied with it; and everyday confirms my belief of the inconsistencies of all human.

To be claimed as a good, though in an improper style, is at least better than being rejected as no good at all.