It Is Painful To Doubt The Sincerity

A Man Must Have Something To Grumble About; And If He Cant Complain That His Wife Harries Him To Death With Her Perversity And Ill-humour, He Must Complain That She Wears Him Out With Her Kindness And Gentleness.

I Am Satisfied That If A Book Is A Good One, It Is So Whatever The Sex Of The Author May Be. All Novels Are Or Should Be, Written For Both Men And Women To Read, And I Am At A Loss To Conceive How A Man Should Permit Himself To Write Anything That Would Be Really Disgraceful To A Woman, Or Why A Woman Should Be Censured For Writing Anything That Would Be Proper And Becoming For A Man.

He Had Not Breathed A Word Of Love, Or Dropped One Hint Of Tenderness Or Affection, And Yet I Had Been Supremely Happy. To Be Near Him, To Hear Him Talk As He Did Talk, And To Feel That He Thought Me Worthy To Be So Spoken To - Capable Of Understanding And Duly Appreciating Such Discourse - Was Enough.

Chess-players Are So Unsociable, They Are No Company For Any But Themselves.

He Never Could Have Loved Me, Or He Would Not Have Resigned Me So Willingly