Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. . . . Every moment rather brought fresh agitation. It was an overpowering happiness.

I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine.

There seems almost a general wish of descrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them.

I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading!

What do you know of my heart? What do you know of anything but your own suffering?

[W]here other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.

There are certainly not so many men of large fortune in the world, as there are pretty women to deserve them.