Where The Waters Do Agree, It Is

All The Privilege I Claim For My Own Sex ... Is That Of Loving Longest, When Existence Or Hope Is Gone.

I Have Faults Enough, But They Are Not, I Hope, Of Understanding. My Temper I Dare Not Vouch For. It Is, I Believe, Too Little Yielding— Certainly Too Little For The Convenience Of The World. I Cannot Forget The Follies And Vices Of Other So Soon As I Ought, Nor Their Offenses Against Myself. My Feelings Are Not Puffed About With Every Attempt To Move Them. My Temper Would Perhaps Be Called Resentful. My Good Opinion Once Lost, Is Lost Forever.

She Was Oppressed, She Was Overcome By Her Own Felicity; And Happily Disposed As Is The Human Mind To Be Easily Familiarized With Any Change For The Better, It Required Several Hours To Give Sedateness To Her Spirits, Or Any Degree Of Tranquillity To Her Heart.

A Woman Of Seven And Twenty, Said Marianne, After Pausing A Moment, Can Never Hope To Feel Or Inspire Affection Again.

I Leave It To Be Settled, By Whomsoever It May Concern, Whether The Tendency Of This Work Be Altogether To Recommend Parental Tyranny, Or Reward Filial Disobedience.