The truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be.
I should infinitely prefer a book.
Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch-hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Barontage; there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one; . . .
His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable.
It is not every man's fate to marry the woman who loves him best
the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome, hopeless son, and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his twentieth year.