You May Only Call Me "mrs. Darcy"...

A Mr. (save, Perhaps, Some Half Dozen In The Nation,) Always Needs A Note Of Explanation.

If This Man Had Not Twelve Thousand A Year, He Would Be A Very Stupid Fellow.

He Could Not Forgive Her, But He Could Not Be Unfeeling. Though Condemning Her For The Past, And Considering It With High And Unjust Resentment, Though Perfectly Careless Of Her, And Though Becoming Attached To Another, Still He Could Not See Her Suffer, Without The Desire Of Giving Her Relief. It Was A Remainder Of Former Sentiment; It Was An Impulse Of Pure, Though Unacknowledged Friendship; It Was A Proof Of His Own Warm And Amiable Heart.

Business, You Know, May Bring You Money, But Friendship Hardly Ever Does.

What Do You Know Of My Heart? What Do You Know Of Anything But Your Own Suffering?