What strange creatures brothers are!

Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret.

And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the true heroine's portion - to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with tears. And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good night's rest in the course of the next three months.

There is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person.

All the privilege I claim for my own sex ... is that of loving longest, when existence or hope is gone.

There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.

But are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid? [Referring to Gothic novels, fashionable in England at the beginning of the 19th century, but frowned upon in polite society.]