Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward.

Everybody has their taste in noises as well as in other matters.

In a letter from Bath to her sister, Cassandra, one senses her frustration at her sheltered existence, Tuesday, 12 May 1801. Another stupid party . . . with six people to look on, and talk nonsense to each other.

The enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond the biographer's.

Give me but a little cheerful company, let me only have the company of the people I love, let me only be where I like and with whom I like, and the devil may take the rest, say I.

She hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; but alas! Alas! She must confess to herself that she was not wise yet.

There is hardly any personal defect... which an agreeable manner might not gradually reconcile one to.