A Light Wind Swept Over

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.

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.

You Cannot Expect Stone To Be As Pliable As Clay.

You May Think It All Very Fine, Mr. Huntingdon, To Amuse Yourself With Rousing My Jealousy; But Take Care You Don't Rouse My Hate Instead. And When You Have Once Extinguished My Love, You Will Find It No Easy Matter To Kindle It Again.