All Our Talents Increase In

There Is Such A Thing As Looking Through A Person's Eyes Into The Heart, And Learning More Of The Height, And Breadth, And Depth Of Another's Soul In One Hour Than It Might Take You A Lifetime To Discover, If He Or She Were Not Disposed To Reveal It, Or If You Had Not The Sense To Understand It.

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.

You Need Not Fear Me, For I Not Only Should Think It Wrong To Marry A Man That Was Deficient In Sense Or In Principle, But I Should Never Be Tempted To Do It; For I Could Not Like Him, If He Were Ever So Handsome, And Ever So Charming, In Other Respects; I Should Hate Him—despise Him—pity Him—anything But Love Him. My Affections Not Only Ought To Be Founded On Approbation, But They Will And Must Be So: For, Without Approving, I Cannot Love. It Is Needless To Say, I Ought To Be Able To Respect And Honour The Man I Marry, As Well As Love Him, For I Cannot Love Him Without.

My Soul Is Awakened, My Spirit Is Soaring And Carried Aloft On The Wings Of The Breeze.

He Is Very Fond Of Me, Almost Too Fond. I Could Do With Less Caressing And More Rationality. I Should Like To Be Less Of A Pet And More Of A Friend, If I Might Choose; But I Won't Complain Of That: I Am Only Afraid His Affection Loses In Depth Where It Gains In Ardour. I Sometimes Liken It To A Fire Of Dry Twigs And Branches Compared With One Of Solid Coal, Very Bright And Hot; But If It Should Burn Itself Out And Leave Nothing But Ashes Behind.