I Love You. Most Ardently.

I Use The Verb 'to Torment,' As I Observed To Be Your Own Method, Instead Of 'to Instruct,' Supposing Them To Be Now Admitted As Synonymous.

The Ladies Here Probably Exchanged Looks Which Meant, 'men Never Know When Things Are Dirty Or Not;' And The Gentlemen Perhaps Thought Each To Himself, 'women Will Have Their Little Nonsense And Needless Cares.'

You Men Have None Of You Any Hearts.' 'if We Have Not Hearts, We Have Eyes; And They Give Us Torment Enough.

Not Keep A Journal! How Are Your Absent Cousins To Understand The Tenor Of Your Life In Bath Without One? How Are The Civilities And Compliments Of Every Day To Be Related As They Ought To Be, Unless Noted Down Every Evening In A Journal? How Are Your Various Dresses To Be Remembered, And The Particular State Of Your Complexion, And Curl Of Your Hair To Be Described In All Their Diversities, Without Having Constant Recourse To A Journal?

I Never Could Be So Happy As You. Till I Have Your Disposition, Your Goodness, I Never Can Have Your Happiness.