A Woman, Especially, If She Have The

Provided That Nothing Like Useful Knowledge Could Be Gained From Them, Provided They Were All Story And No Reflection, She Had Never Any Objection To Books At All.

And If I Had Not A Letter To Write Myself, I Might Sit By You And Admire The Evenness Of Your Writing, As Another Young Lady Once Did. But I Have An Aunt Too, Who Must Not Be Longer Neglected.

There Could Have Never Been Two Hearts So Open, No Tastes So Similar, No Feelings So In Unison, No Countenances So Beloved. Now They Were As Strangers; Nay, Worse Than Strangers, For They Could Never Become Acquainted. It Was A Perpetual Estrangement.

I Wrote Without Much Effort; For I Was Rich, And The Rich Are Always Respectable, Whatever Be Their Style Of Writing.

But It Is Very Foolish To Ask Questions About Any Young Ladies — About Any Three Sisters Just Grown Up; For One Knows, Without Being Told, Exactly What They Are — All Very Accomplished And Pleasing, And One Very Pretty. There Is A Beauty In Every Family. — It Is A Regular Thing