Books--oh! No. I Am Sure We Never

I Have Faults Enough, But They Are Not, I Hope, Of Understanding. My Temper I Dare Not Vouch For. It Is, I Believe, Too Little Yielding— Certainly Too Little For The Convenience Of The World. I Cannot Forget The Follies And Vices Of Other So Soon As I Ought, Nor Their Offenses Against Myself. My Feelings Are Not Puffed About With Every Attempt To Move Them. My Temper Would Perhaps Be Called Resentful. My Good Opinion Once Lost, Is Lost Forever.

As A Brother, A Landlord, A Master, She Considered How Many People's Happiness Were In His Guardianship! -- How Much Of Pleasure Or Pain It Was In His Power To Bestow! -- How Much Of Good Or Evil Must Be Done By Him!

But Are They All Horrid, Are You Sure They Are All Horrid? [referring To Gothic Novels, Fashionable In England At The Beginning Of The 19th Century, But Frowned Upon In Polite Society.]

My Characters Shall Have, After A Little Trouble, All That They Desire.

Half The Sum Of Attraction, On Either Side, Might Have Been Enough, For He Had Nothing To Do, And She Had Hardly Any Body To Love." (of Anne Elliot And Captain Wentworth, Persuasion)