Chess-players Are So Unsociable, They Are No

His Heart Was Like A Sensitive Plant, That Opens For A Moment In The Sunshine, But Curls Up And Shrinks Into Itself At The Slightest Touch Of The Finger, Or The Lightest Breath Of Wind.

[preface To Second Edition:] ... I Am Satisfied That If A Book Is A Good One, It Is So Whatever The Sex Of The Author May Be.

There Is Always A But In This Imperfect World.

Because I Imagine There Must Be Only A Very, Very Few Men In The World, That I Should Like To Marry; And Of Those Few, It Is Ten To One I May Never Be Acquainted With One; Or If I Should, It Is Twenty To One He May Not Happen To Be Single, Or To Take A Fancy To Me.

My Heart Is Too Thoroughly Dried To Be Broken In A Hurry, And I Mean To Live As Long As I Can.