The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it.

I am not at all in a humour for writing; I must write on till I am.

one day in the country is exactly like another.

Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend?

“It is not everyone,” said Elinor, “who has your passion for dead leaves.”

How can I dispose of myself with it?

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