I Declare After All There Is No

Her Own Thoughts And Reflections Were Habitually Her Best Companions.

You Have Delighted Us Long Enough.

She Went, However, And They Sauntered About Together Many A Half Hour In Mr. Grant's Shrubbery, The Weather Being Unusually Mild For The Time Of Year, And Venturing Sometimes Even To Sit Down On One Of The Benches Now Comparatively Unsheltered, Remaining There Perhaps Till, In The Midst Of Some Tender Ejaculation Of Fanny's On The Sweets Of So Protracted An Autumn, They Were Forced By The Sudden Swell Of A Cold Gust Shaking Down The Last Few Yellow Leaves About Them, To Jump Up And Walk For Warmth.

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

It Was For The Sake Of What Had Been, Rather Than What Was.