An Artist Cannot Do Anything Slovenly.

I Begin Already To Weigh My Words And Sentences More Than I Did, And Am Looking About For A Sentiment, An Illustration, Or A Metaphor In Every Corner Of The Room. Could My Ideas Flow As Fast As The Rain In The Storecloset It Would Be Charming.

Emma Woodhouse, Handsome, Clever, And Rich, With A Comfortable Home And Happy Disposition, Seemed To Unite Some Of The Best Blessings Of Existence; And Had Lived Nearly Twenty-one Years In The World With Very Little To Distress Or Vex Her.

Wickedness Is Always Wickedness, But Folly Is Not Always Folly.

We Do Not Suffer By Accident.

Is Not Poetry The Food Of Love?