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.

To be sure you know no actual good of me, but nobody thinks of that when they fall in love.

The publicis rather apt to be unreasonably discontented when a woman does marry again, than when she does not.

Women are the only correspondents to be depended on.

Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce equal exertion, it could not be an equal conviction.

She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.

Brandon is just the kind of man whom every body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to.