... Strange Things May Be

Where Any One Body Of Educated Men, Of Whatever Denomination, Are Condemned Indiscriminately, There Must Be A Deficiency Of Information, Or...of Something Else.

We Certainly Do Not Forget You As Soon As You Forget Us. It Is, Perhaps, Our Fate Rather Than Our Merit. We Cannot Help Ourselves. We Live At Home, Quiet, Confined, And Our Feelings Prey Upon Us. You Are Forced On Exertion. You Have Always A Profession, Pursuits, Business Of Some Sort Or Other, To Take You Back Into The World Immediately, And Continual Occupation And Change Soon Weaken Impressions.

Emma Woodhouse, Handsome, Clever, And Rich, With A Comfortable Home And Happy Disposition, Seemed To Unite Some Of The Best Blessings Of Existence; And Had Lived Nearly Twenty-one Years In The World With Very Little To Distress Or Vex Her.

They Parted At Last With Mutual Civility, And Possibly A Mutual Desire Of Never Meeting Again.

Elinor Was To Be The Comforter Of Others In Her Own Distresses, No Less Than In Theirs; And All The Comfort That Could Be Given By Assurances Of Her Own Composure Of Mind, And A Very Earnest Vindication Of Edward From Every Charge But Of Imprudence, Was Readily Offered.