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.

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

Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery.

I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly.

I assure you. I have no notion of treating men with such respect. That is the way to spoil them.

It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than it does. And men take care that they should.

I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman doubts as to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse him.