Perhaps It Is Our Imperfections

Sir Walter Elliot, Of Kellynch-hall, In Somersetshire, Was A Man Who, For His Own Amusement, Never Took Up Any Book But The Barontage; There He Found Occupation For An Idle Hour, And Consolation In A Distressed One; . . .

Well, My Comfort Is, I Am Sure Jane Will Die Of A Broken Heart, And Then He Will Be Sorry For What He Has Done.

Angry People Are Not Always Wise.

Elinor Could Sit Still No Longer. She Almost Ran Out Of The Room, And As Soon As The Door Was Closed, Burst Into Tears Of Joy, Which At First She Thought Would Never Cease.

I Never Wish To Offend, But I Am So Foolishly Shy, That I Often Seem Negligent, When I Am Only Kept Back By My Natural Awkwardness.