It Is Odd Enough To See How

How Was It That He Haunted Her Imagination So Persistently? What Could It Be? Why Did She Care For What He Thought, In Spite Of All Her Pride In Spite Of Herself? She Believed That She Could Have Borne The Sense Of Almighty Displeasure, Because He Knew All, And Could Read Her Penitence, And Hear Her Cries For Help In Time To Come. But Mr.thornton-why Did She Tremble, And Hide Her Face In The Pillow? What Strong Feeling Had Overtaking Her At Last?

Nothing Like The Act Of Eating For Equalizing Men. Dying Is Nothing To It.

I Do Not Look On Self-indulgent, Sensual People As Worthy Of My Hatred; I Simply Look Upon Them With Contempt For Their Poorness Of Character.

The Question Always Is, Has Everything Been Done To Make The Sufferings Of These Exceptions As Small As Possible? Or, In The Triumph Of The Crowded Procession, Have The Helpless Been Trampled On, Instead Of Being Gently Lifted Aside Out Of The Roadway Of The Conqueror, Whom They Have No Power To Accompany On His March?

She Never Called Her Son By Any Name But John; 'love' And 'dear', And Such Like Terms, Were Reserved For Fanny.